


West of the Moon

by Blue Eyes Black Dragon (OperaGoose)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Animal Transformation, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Book - Freeform, Curses, Deals, M/M, North Child/East
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 30,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9210164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/Blue%20Eyes%20Black%20Dragon
Summary: My daughter, the princess, has defied me and taken a high-born soft-skin. As punishment she shall forthwith be bound by my edict in this matter.The boy stolen from the green lands shall be transformed into a white dragon. He will reside in the castle carved into a mountain in the soft-skin land. He will be given enough arts so that he may survive, and a servant of our own kind will be supplied to serve him in the mountain.Further, no request that he shall make of one of us shall be denied - except the request to be released from his enchantment.To be released from the enchantment, the dragon that was a soft-skin must abide by and satisfy a set of inviolable conditions. These conditions shall be made to him in their entirety.So it has been decreed, and let this stand as an example to those who would defy their king.The fusion nobody asked for: Edith Pattou's North Child/East, gone YGO style.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I chose English names for this one, as I do with most fusions just because it's a very european novel and the Japanese names don't really fit. Still, it's probably both very OOC and also closer to dub characterisation.  
> Whatever, enjoy your fairy tale nerds kids.
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/P31forever/media/west%20of%20the%20moon%20copy_1.png.html)  
> 

The bad luck began the year our son was born. My wife had never hidden the fact that she blamed him for all the misfortune that befell our family afterwards. 

Joseph was born in the dead of winter, in the middle of the year’s fiercest blizzard - one that wiped out almost our entire livestock. He came into the world with a sparse mop of yellow hair atop his head and the bright blue eyes all babes seemed to be born with. The eyes darkened as he grew, to the same earthy brown eyes I had - but his hair still remained the same hay-coloured shade of my own hair. The hair was what had soured my wife towards her firstborn, and it was all the fault of a journey she had taken when she was a girl to a fortune teller in the large city a day’s journey from where she was born. 

Once we were engaged, before she had been married, she had gone to a fortune teller. Her family were a very superstitious lot, and this pilgrimage was a family tradition for all the brides. The fortune teller had told her that any child she had with fair hair would bring great misfortune, and meet his death buried under ice and snow. She had almost broken off the marriage then, which ought to have warned me how seriously she took the prediction. 

I had always thought that this had just been a little cold feet, and her calm acceptance of my proposal afterwards seemed to indicate she had gotten over her momentary regrets. As I was to learn, the truth was that her family had called her a fool - after all, every child born to their family had been born with brown hair for fifty years. Had any of them cared to remember her grandmother had been golden-haired before it had turned white with age, things may have turned out differently. 

I owned a little farm in the north, where I grew crops and raised sheep, with a handful of chickens for eggs and a dairy cow named Bessie like every other milking cow in the countryside seemed to be called. Winters were harsh but the earth was fertile and yielded strong, healthy crops. 

After little Joey was born, filled with life from his first cry, my dear wife insisted we move. Somewhere to the south, she demanded, where snow was a rare event. Foolish, and very much in love with my fretful wife, I sold the rest of our animals and bought a reasonably priced farm in a warmer situation. 

Without my wife’s urgency, would I have been clever about it? Would I have noticed that the land was too cheap, the owners too eager to rent it out to a stranger? 

The earth was pale and the soil failed to grow strong, healthy crops. Our profits were not enough to support ourselves just from the farming. We were forced to supplement our income by my wife’s weaving - of which she had little patience and little talent. 

Meanwhile, Joey grew. From the very beginning, he needed to be into everything - needed to feel and touch and taste whatever he could get his hands on. He seemed to run before he could walk, and was always chasing whatever caught his eye. He was boisterous, and noisy - and though he was very short-tempered, he had a sweet, loving disposition. He was determined to love everything he came across - from the neighbour’s three-legged dog to the boy in the village who picked fights with everything. 

This nature was seemingly the only consolation to my wife. She used it to keep him close, by her side. She taught him how to weave, and where she had no love for it, little Joey had not only love but talent. My wife’s bolts of plain or simple-patterns were soon surpassed by the pieces Joey made. 

Things may have continued on, difficult but bearable, if things had not changed. But three years after Joey was born, our daughter was born into the world. While Joey’s birth had been easy, hers was most difficult. Born blue, choked by her own cord, little Serenity had struggled from the very beginning. As she grew up, cosseted by her mother and utterly adored by her older brother, she was prone to colds and tiredness. Every illness she caught only seemed to sour my wife’s outlook on Joey further. Serenity was dark-haired, and the reminder of Joey’s fair hair and the curse attached to it was returned again and again with every failure of Serenity’s health. 

Though his sister was very dear to him, as she grew up he began to change. He became angrier, more prone to wandering away from the farm on his own. 

One winter evening, I returned home from making repairs on the barn, kept warm by the neighbour’s ale, to find that Joey was missing, and had been all afternoon. Guided by some inner instinct, I followed my feet to a small rocky outcrop overhanging the river. What I saw there, I denied for many years. Joey had clearly fallen in the water, there was turbulence at the edge of the cliffside that spoke as much - but he had been pulled out of the water. 

Pulled out by a creature that ought to have only belonged in myths and legends. Scaly and reptilian, I would almost have thought it was a giant snake, except for the leathery wings stretched out to dry. It was as tall as I stood, though it crouched on four legs. Icy blue eyes stared at me, and seemed to stare right through me. It took a long moment for me to be able to look away from the slitted eyes down to the limp form clutched in one of its talons. 

The cry of relief at seeing Joey, bruised but breathing, in its grips must have startled it away - for it promptly dropped the boy on the ground and flew away, its white form glowing under the light of the full moon. 

I never spoke to anyone else about what I had seen, even denied it to myself as a drunken dream. Instead I took Joey home, and only told my wife he had been found next to the river. 

We probably would have gone on surviving, if Serenity’s eyes hadn’t failed her, and thus began the whole terrible business one fortune teller had once seen. 


	2. Tapestry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 3 person POV now, whoops. Too much work to switch it now, just enjoy it as is.

They had always been poor. Hunger was as much a part of Joey as his blond hair, or his hands - always searching for something to do. If they didn’t work hard, they wouldn’t have food on the table. His father worked on the farm - needing their help in the field for the planting and the harvest of grain, but otherwise tended to take charge of the crops and the livestock himself. Their mother spun wool and wove bolts of coarse wool, in dull colours from her own dye recipes. 

Joey and his sister were expected to help out where there was an extra hand needed - and there was always a hand needed. It seemed selfish to spare any time for his own pursuits… 

Still, he had his vision and he worked hard for his fulfilment. He begged the local carpenter to teach him the tricks of his trade, building first a haphazard shack in the back corners of their farm- and then his own loom. It wasn’t large, but that was better. He couldn’t use their own wool, his conscience wouldn’t let him eat into their profits. He collected tufts of wool caught on brambles, or fences, or anything- and spun them late into the night when his mother was asleep. He foraged for his own dyes, and coloured his own wool. When a crazed idea struck him and wouldn’t leave, he went with his father into the village every market day to work punishingly long hours for handfuls of silvery-white silk from the expensive silk trader. 

The whole thing took years - but in the winter of his sixteenth year, he finally cut the finished tapestry free. Carefully bundling it up in his arms, he hurried across frost-covered fields back to their farmhouse. 

Serenity was awake, stirring a pot of thin broth over the fire. He knelt on the ground next to her little stool. She smiled, and gripped one of his hands. “It’s finished?” 

“It is,” he said. He unrolled the tapestry over her lap, careful to keep it well away from the fire, and took up one of her hands. He guided her fingers across the tapestry. “Purple wool, with darker shades - it looks like clouds in a storm. This bit here is a fork of lightning, in raw, undyed wool.” 

Serenity was smiling, eyes pointed at his face instead of the tapestry - not that she could see really well of either. “It sounds lovely, Joey.” 

He just smiled and moved her fingers towards the centrepiece of the tapestry. She gave a low gasp as her fingers discovered the texture of the fabric. On her own, she traced the outline of the dragon with her soft fingertip. “White? With blue eyes?” 

“White silk - and the eyes, I dyed the silk with cornflowers. It wasn’t as vibrant as I wanted, but it works out with the other tones of the tapestry.” 

Serenity took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m so proud of you, Joey. It’s finally finished. Will you be hanging it up in here?” 

“Hanging what up?” Their mother asked, coming in with a basket of wool tufts. 

Feeling uncomfortable and ashamed, he held up the tapestry for her to see. She looked over it and gave one of her rare smiles. She placed a hand on his head with a proud look. “It’s beautiful, Joey. Let’s hang it up over the mantle.” 

They took down the simple repeated-pattern tapestry that they’d hung up to cover the mortar-filled crack that had been there for as long as he could remember. 

There wasn’t much work to do in the wintertime, and once they’d finished the morning chores, he sat by the fire with his sister. They didn’t have many books, but they sat together and Joey read from Serenity’s favourite. He’d never much liked reading, always wanting to be doing something with his hands. But as Serenity grew older, her eyesight got worse - and he had started reading to her in the slow days with nothing to do. That day, they sat together by the fire and Joey read from an old book of Norse fairy-tales. The story that day was of the goddess Freya and her search for her lost husband Odr. 

It was one of Serenity’s favourite tales. She always gave a low, sad sigh when the Huldre trolls- the cruel, most enchantingly beautiful of all the trolls, held the goddess Freya captive and told her: “ _Odr is in every place where the searcher has not come. Odr is in every place that the searcher has left.”_ She escaped from the glittering ice palace, and used her cloak of falcon feathers to fly away. 

He was just getting to the part where she found Odr, when their father came in. “She approached him, dressed in the light of the golden star of the dwarves, and she had never looked so beau-” 

“What’s this?” Their father interrupted, his voice an angry growl. 

Joey looked up. “It’s the tapestry I’ve been working on, Father. I finished it.” 

“It’s a white dragon.” He was staring into the woven blue eyes of the portrait. He seemed to be caught by the gaze, unable to break the eye contact. There was an unreadable expression on his face, and he was silent for just a moment too long. Abruptly, he turned away. “Bring me ale.” 

... 

Joey sat up, shivering as the thick, woollen blanket slipped from his shoulders. He’d fallen asleep reading to Serenity, and pain radiated down his back from being hunched over as he slept. It took a moment for him to realise what had woken him - their parents were arguing in the next room. He glanced down at Serenity to find her awake, eyes pointed towards the cloth-covered window. 

“We have to do something!” His mother hissed, “She can hardly see anything now! This is all his fault!” 

“Serena…” His father sounded tired. 

“We must do _something!”_ She insisted. 

“It’s winter,” his father said. “It will be months before we can grow anything to sell. Perhaps with his new loom, we can sell more cloth-” 

“I can hardly find anyone to buy what we make now,” their mother snapped. “I think it’s best if we left.” 

“Left? Where exactly do you think we would go?” 

“If we moved to the city, we could be closer to physicians who could help her…” 

“The _city?_ Serena, are you mad? I am a farmer - I couldn’t work in the city!” 

“My uncle could…” 

“Absolutely not! And we couldn’t take Joey to the city - he gets into enough trouble as it is with the tailor’s boy, he’d be wild in a city.” 

There was a long, awkward pause. 

“Serena, what is that look for?” 

“I think…it would be best if we didn’t take him. _Don’t_ look at me like that! It was foretold that he would bring great misfortune. Things have been going wrong since he was born - if we took them away from one another, perhaps…” 

“He’s sixteen-” 

“Practically a grown man.” 

“We can’t leave him here - he could never afford the rent on this place. We can hardly afford it ourselves.” 

Another long, stilted silence followed. 

“We can’t make rent again, can we, Serena?” 

“I told you that our cloth isn’t selling very well- and our last harvest barely fed ourselves.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You know just as well as I do how much we need to make!” 

“If we sold all the sheep…” 

“We’d make rent, but then what would we do next year?” 

“So we have to sell all our stock and leave? I _knew_ that dragon was an ill omen! And you let Joey hang it in our house!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous - our troubles have been going on longer than he’s been weaving that tapestry.” 

“Because his having blond hair is much more rational!” 

Joey had endured enough of listening to that prophecy business to last him a lifetime. He got up and closed the door to the hallway. Their voices were now too muffled to hear the words, though the angry tone could still be heard. 

Toes almost numb from the cold, he climbed into his bed and tugged the blankets over himself. 

“Joey?” Serenity’s voice was little more than a wavering whisper, groaning from sleep. “What’s going to happen now?” 

“I don’t know, Serenity,” he admitted. He kept his voice as strong and sure as he could so that she couldn’t hear how fearful he really was. “But things will work out. I promise they will.” 


	3. Deal

The air crackled with some sort of tension, like there was a lightning storm brewing - but the sky was clear. Everyone was on edge. Joey had suspected this could be the day their parents announced what they were going to be doing about the farm. But his father was just as restless - kept frowning up at the sky, rubbing the fine hairs at the back of his neck. 

The air was cold when the sun went down. Joey listened to the crunching of their feet on the frosty grass as they walked back from the fields, his father equally silent beside him. The only words they exchanged were about whether he thought there was a storm coming. 

They were all restless and uneasy. They tried a few times to talk, but mostly spent their time in silence. After dinner, they occupied themselves with their own handiwork - the mother at the spinning wheel, his father whittling, Joey finished off his mother’s weaving, and Serenity braided fibre to make ropes. They all seemed to be waiting for something. 

Yet, when there was a knock at the door, they all startled about it. Their father picked up his cudgel and stood, going to the door. There was an odd scratching against the wood. Joey stood up - “did the neighbour’s dog get out again?” 

Before he could get an answer, the door burst open on its hinges. There was a pale blur and a gust of air slammed the door closed again. They were silent for a long time, and Serenity broke it: “is that…?” 

His father lifted the cudgel. “Get back!” he barked at his children. 

None of them moved, but for the large white dragon - its head moving to look around the room, pausing on the tapestry over the fire. Then, it settled its eyes on Joey - eyes of bright, glowing blue, slitted but round \- wide and deep. 

“If you will give me your son,” the deep voice echoed in the room. It seemed to come from the dragon, a low rough growl. There was a laboured pause between each syllable, as if it was difficult, or painful to walk. “...then the one who is blind will see again, and you will no longer be poor but shall live in comfort and ease.” 

The deathly stillness outside the farmhouse seemed to punctuate the silence that followed. 

The beast’s flank swelled as he took in a deep breath - speaking again the same words, in the lumbering, rough voice that seemed to be dragged cross gravel to come out. 

Their mother stepped forward. “You would make Serenity well again?” 

A low rumble of a growl sounded as the dragon turned his gaze away from Joey to look at her. “Yes.” 

“How?” 

The scaled flank swelled again, “if you will give me your son, then the one who is blind-” 

“Enough,” their father snarled. “You shall not have any of us!” 

The dragon turned his gaze back to Joey. “Do not decide now. I will return in seven days, and i will hear your answer then.” 

The door opened, of its own accord, and the dragon ambled out - his body carefully manoeuvring the space of the house. Once his long tailed cleared the door, it slammed closed. 

Their mother broke the silence first, stepping up to her husband and clutching his arm. “Dear-” 

“No,” their father snapped. “Tend to Serenity, we can’t let her catch cold again.” He stomped out of the sitting room, slamming the door to the hallway. 

Joey picked up Serenity’s fallen shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Are you cold?” 

She shook her head, pale and trembling. “Joey - what does the white dragon want from you?” 

“I don’t know, Serenity,” he said gently, kneeling beside her. Her hands seized his fiercely. “It’s alright,” he reassured her, “he’s gone now.” 

“What if he wants to **eat** you?” She whispered. 

He had never even thought of that, and he searched for an answer. All he could think of was the dragon’s eyes - though they were slitted like a snake, or a cat’s… they looked so startlingly humane. “He could have gobbled me up right then.” He stroked her knuckles. “Maybe it’s like your fairy tales, he needs a brave hero to rescue a princess.” 

She managed a small laugh. “You’re not going, right Joey? You’re going to stay here with me and everything is going to be okay, just like you promised?” 

He held her hand tightly. “You’re going to be okay.” 

… 

For the next six days, not a word was said about the matter. On the morning of the seventh, their father announced at breakfast: “we must spend the night making the barn comfortable for a night’s stay for the three of you.” 

“What do you mean?” Their mother demanded. 

“The dragon returns tonight. I will remain here and give it our refusal.” 

Their was a clatter as two spoons dropped into their wooden bowls. “Our refusal?” 

At the same time, Serenity asked fearfully, “alone?” 

“It's too dangerous to risk having everyone there if it loses its temper. I will not risk any of your safety.” 

His mother opened her mouth, but Joey cleared his throat. “I think that's a sound idea, Father.” 

Their mother pursed her lips, but she couldn't say anything after he agreed to it. 

They mocked a bed into the barn, made up with all their thickest and warmest blankets - so Serenity wouldn't get too cold and get sick. Towards the evening, Joey crouched to help his mother set up a fire under their pot. 

“Mother, I've been thinking - what if the dragon refuses to accept an answer from Father alone? Don't you think it's best if I was there with him?” 

She looked at him for a long moment. He refused to shift under the gaze, let her know he was nervous. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. I suppose you're right.” 

He nodded and stood. “I'll go speak with him.” He hurried out, but when he spoke to his father, he merely arranged to bring him his supper at sunset. 

He felt the guilt of deceiving his parents - but he knew that his arrangement would be best for everyone. His father couldn't blame his mother, and Serenity wouldn't have to see him taken away. The only thing he regretted was not being able to say goodbye to her properly. 

He was kept busy in the afternoon by his errands - both real ones from his parents, and secretive ones for his own preparations. The clothes were easy to explain away - he merely claimed they needed mending and he would take care of it that night. The hunting dagger and the compar he had to smuggle out under his shirt when his father was distracted. 

At long last, having finished a repair to the warped barn shutters, his father stood. “Very well. It is time for me to go wait for the beast.” 

A small crease appeared between his mother’s eyebrows, and she opened her mouth to speak - but Joey made sure to interrupt before she spoke: “I’ll bring soup up once the pot has boiled.” 

His father nodded, looking weary as he headed out the door. Joey busied himself, sitting with Serenity and speaking with her as he penned her a letter. One she could read when she had her eyesight back. 

“Joey?” She said softly. “You seem quiet. Is everything okay?” 

“Yes… yes. I am just sketching a new plan for my next tapestry.” He hurriedly signed his name at the bottom of the letter and tucked it under the blankets of her bed. “I have to go now, Serenity.” 

“To take Father his supper,” she agreed, nodding. 

He swallowed. “Stay warm, okay?” He tucked the blankets around her and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

“Joey?” She whispered, concerned. “What's wrong?” 

“Get some sleep.” He hurriedly to collect the bowl of soup for his father, wrapping one of the spare blankets around himself to stay warm. He took his father the soup, and bid him come to the barn once he had seen off the dragon. 

“Joey…” His father gave him a long look. “We’ll figure something out. Wheelers are hardy men - practical and strong. We don't need magic nonsense to fix our fortunes. We’ll work hard.” 

The boy shifted guilty and nodded. “I know this is the best choice. Don't worry, Father.” 

They parted and, keeping sight out of the covered windows, he walked the long way around the farm to get to his little loom hut. 

It was cold, the icy north wind blowing through the gaps in branches. He sat at the loom and, by the light of the full moon, he weaved his remaining purple wool to keep his hands busy and warm his body. 

The night went by, the moonlight creeping a path away from the loom until it was too dark and cold to continue his work. Shivering, he drew the thin woollen blanket around himself and _worried_. This was much later than the dragon had come the previous week. What if this all was for nothing? If the dragon had only gone to the farmhouse and been turned away… 

He became aware of a sudden silence, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. The howling of the wind had stopped, but like when… With a nervous twist in his stomach, he turned to face the door. 

The white dragon was there. In the moonlight, the white scales had a pearly sheen to them, and his eyes glowed blue. On four legs, he stood a handspan taller than Joey. He watched, pupils round, as if waiting for Joey. 

He swallowed and picked up his knapsack. It felt heavy as lead in his arms. “I'll come with you.” 


	4. Flight

The white dragon flew South for three days and three days and nights. After a few minutes, the skin of Joey’s face felt raw and numb from the cold wind blowing on him. His lips felt dry and tight, and they split when he opened his mouth. Before they had left familiar landscape, he tugged the blanket over his face and lay back against the dragon’s warm back. The scales were hard, but seemed to be warned by some inner fire. 

Pressed against the warmth, and rocked by the smooth sensation of flying through the air, he fell into an easy sleep. When he woke up, the sun was high in the sky. He sat up, tugging the blanket down just enough to look out. They were flying across a glittering blue and green sea. Joey’s breath caught and he stared as long as his eyes could handle the wind. He’d never been to the seaside before, though he’d read about oceans in books. Even the illustrations didn’t convey the beauty. His hands itched to be busy, he wanted to weave this image to remember it. 

The next time he woke up, the sky was laid out in a blanket of stars. He lay back on the dragon’s back, facing the sky and tracing patterns in the stars with his fingers until he slept again. 

The rest of the journey went much the same - sleeping, watching the sights, and sleeping again. They stopped only once: on an island in the middle of the sea that was barely more than sand and pile of rocks bubbling with water. The dragon landed and lowered down to drink from the pool. 

Joey slid off the dragon’s back and sat on the sand. He realized he didn’t need to drink -- and he hadn’t been hungry yet either. There must be some kind of enchantment at work, and the thought had his heart beating fast in his chest. 

The white dragon raised his eyes to look at Joey. In the sun, they didn’t glow, but they were a clear, beautiful blue - with no traces of green or grey. He raised his mouth from the water. “Are you afraid?” 

“No.” Even as he gave his answer, he knew it was true. It had never even occurred to him to be afraid. 

The dragon slowly blinked, two sets of pupils sliding closed over his eyes. He gave a low huff of breath, almost like a sigh, and lowered his head to keep drinking. 

… 

The next day, their journey ended. They landed on a mountainside, and when Joey slid down from the dragon’s back, he was suddenly overwhelmed with hunger and thirst. It was a sign as much as anything that the journey was done. 

The dragon looked at the wall of rock and murmured a low, rumbling word. Joey couldn’t hear what it was, though he was standing right beside him. Was that magic too? 

There was a rumbling in response - Joey wondered it were another dragon speaking back. But then a large square of the mountain swung inwards like a door. 

“Come,” the dragon rumbled, walking slowly inside. 

Joey followed behind him, his hands and feet feeling very far away from the rest of him. The door closed behind them, and when Joey glanced back he couldn’t see the seams where it should be. A painful feeling sliced through his chest - would he never go outside again? 

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and his nose was flooded with the delicious scent of fresh bread and thick soup with gravy. In reply, his stomach let out a loud, demanding growl. 

A short gust of air escaped the dragon’s nostrils. “This way.” 

He followed him through the stone hallways, admiring the patterned rug - until he had the sense to raise his head and see where they were going. They passed many open rooms, and Joey only caught glimpses. He had the impressions of earth - richly coloured fabrics, polished wood, golds and bronze, everything lit by warm candlelight. 

They came at last to a room lit with a roaring fire. The smell of food was strongest yet, and he instinctively stepped forward as he saw the cast iron pot hanging over the fire. But then he hesitated - what if the food was not his? What if he had been brought to this secret mountain to be a servant? 

His stomach growled again, and there was a forceful huff of air behind him. “Eat.” 

He needed no second offer - he hurried to the pot and ladled himself a bowl of stew. It was thick and brown, with morsels of brown meat and coloured vegetables. He ate greedily, gulping from the bowl and scooping chunks into his mouth using his fingers. 

He could rein himself in once the bowl was empty, only the thick gravy streaking the sides. He studied the bowl first - it was made of curious white clay, shiny and smooth, and when he tapped it with is nails it made a delightful _ting!_ noise. Beyond the rich smell of the stew, the scent of fresh bread was beginning to tease at his nose. 

He raised his head and looked around to take in the rest of the room. There was a small, oval table a few steps away, draped with a tablecloth of heavy white linen. He stood, the muscles in his legs cramping from being crouched for too long. The table was laid with a flat plate in the same shiny white clay, and cutlery of polished silver. There was a small bowl of butter and, when he lifted the cover, a basket full of small, pale loaves of bread - no bigger than his fist. 

He took a seat and broke open one of the laves, giving a soft sigh of admiration at the spongy white bread inside. He slathered the bread with butter and bit into it with an eager groan. They had never been able to afford butter - though a few times they had received a small pat as a gift. 

After the bread and butter, he helped himself to another bowl of soup, mopping up the remaining sauce with another loaf of bread and butter. 

Belly round and full to bursting for the first time he could ever remember, he sat back and yawned. He was warm and full and it made him sleepy. 

Against the far wall, there was a couch. It was soft, and when he stroked his finger across the surface he discovered it to be velvet - in a red so dark it almost looked purple. He’d only seen velvet one before: the silk trader had a bolt of green velvet hidden in one of his trunks, he wouldn’t even lay it out for their simple village markets. 

He tugged off his shoes and lay down. He’d just close his eyes for a few moments, and then he’d find the dragon… 


	5. Castle

When he woke up with a heavy head, and a sense that something was wrong. For as long as he could remember, he’d never slept on something so comfortable. He stretched, and tugged off the woollen blanket. It was warm, too warm for the middle of winter- even when he was younger, they could never afford to let the fire go all night. 

He opened his eyes and looked around. The table had been cleared, and there was only a tray of pastries and a steaming pot. He only managed a few bites before his restlessness got the better of him. He stood and left the room, letting his feet guide him down the hallways. 

He explored the rooms, looking for the white dragon. The rooms were large, finely furnished- and there were too many to count. He began to think of the place like a castle. A castle hidden inside a mountain. It was like a real life fairy tale! 

As he explored, he began to notice things. There were an awful lot of books- a shelf in almost every room, sometimes a whole bookcase. At long last, he came to a large, vaulted room, filled wall-to-wall with bookshelves filled to bursting. He looked around, his jaw hanging open. He’d never seen so many books before- he’d never even imagined there were this many in the whole world. He reached out to pull out a book, but then he heard a shuffling noise behind him. He turned to look at the doorway, and caught a flash of white. 

“The dragon…” He hurried out after the movement. He couldn’t see the dragon down the hallway in either direction, so he continued his explorations. There were tapestries on every wall, threaded with fine silks in rich colours he wouldn’t even know how to replicate. They showed people dressed in old-fashioned clothes, like the sort of clothes that princes and princesses wore in the illustrations in his books of fairy tales. He lifted a finger to stroke along the weaving. There was another sound behind him, another flash of white through the door at the end of the hallway. 

He hurried towards the door and flung it open. Beyond the doors was a large room, panelled with fabric. On a dais at the far end of the room was a large shape covered in white cloth. He crossed the room to finger the fabric, and find out what it was made of. The fabric was more lightweight than he had expected, and the slight pull he gave had it sliding off the piece of furniture. 

At first he thought it was a weird table, with delicate decorative carvings along the bottom edge, and side panels painted with a journey. It started at the wide end of the table, with rolling fields of grass, and flowers and wheat, across hills and mountains, across a pale desert with peculiar ruins in weird shapes, over a river and lush, fertile land with black soil. The river led out to sea at the thin end of the table. He walked around to the other side, past misty islands, rocky cliffsides - onto a rocky, icy shore. From there the journey progressed across snowy landscapes, with jagged spikes of ice, fields of meltwater. There was an ice bridge, lit up like a rainbow - like the Bifrost from Serenity’s stories. More snow, with prancing white reindeer pulling silver sleighs - coming at last to a glittering ice palace. 

He blinked and stepped back, only then noticing the hinges at the top. Curious, he went around the other side and lifted what he discovered was a lid. The top panel was a brilliant skyscape, with the sun on one side and the moon on the other, with the sky in between - dawn through midday through dusk through midnight through dawn again. He propped it open with a little stand and stepped back. 

The bottom part seemed to be some sort of musical instrument, and at the widest end there were two rows of keys in white, with smaller black keys along the top. He pressed down one of the keys and shivered as a bright, clear high note sung out through the air. 

There was a deep sigh from the doorway. He whirled around and just caught sight of the end of a long, white, scaled tail. The dragon! 

Joey chased after him, but once he was in the hallway, there was no sign of the dragon. Huffing in annoyance, he walked back down the hallway to keep exploring the castle. He couldn’t see any windows, and there were hardly any doors. After the concert hall, the next doors he saw were up a spiralling set of stairs. 

The carpet in the upstairs hallway was thicker, and softer - he could feel it through his thick, woollen socks. He opened the door to his left. 

He gave a low gasp and stepped inside. In the centre of the room was the most beautiful loom he had ever seen: it was made of rich, chestnut wood, polished to gleaming and carved with intricate designs on the posts and crossbeams. The warp threads were set up in a sunny yellow that reminded him of the sunlit wheat fields on a summer afternoon. 

He ran his fingers along the threads reverently, eyes sliding past the loom to take in the rest of the room. The walls were covered with drawers, and small square recesses filled with thread in every colour imaginable. Silk and flaxen and thin cotton and wool in both thick and thin strands. Tugging open the drawers, he discovered them filled with everything a weaver or a tailor could need. His eyes strayed back to the spools of thread again. Bright hues - blues and reds and purples he could never dream of making with his plant-based dyes. He could just try, right…? 

His hands plucked greens and yellows and pinks, purples, reds. He sat down at the loom, is mind focused solely on the task before him. He took up the shuttle and beater - within moments he and the loom understood each other. As he worked he could almost feel the parched grass under his feet, hear the wind dancing through the stalks of wheat, smell the familiar scents of the farm. 

He had no idea how long he wove. T could have been hours, or days - but finally his stomach gave a sick twist of need that pulled him back to his senses. His head felt light, spinning ever so slightly, accompanied by a low, droning buzz in his ears. His hands shook and, suddenly weak, dropped the wefting thread. 

He rose shakily to his feet - he knew he must eat, or else he would faint. Head swimming, he lurched from the room. He slid down the stairs on his rear, clinging to the wall, pulling himself up by the banister when he reached the floor. 

He walked, pressed against the walls, lurching from doorpost to doorpost. Where was the room with the red couch and the food? He sniffed the ear, trying to scent the air - but the smell of food was too faint, and he couldn’t force his mind to orient itself. 

His laboured progress finally turned a corner, and he was suddenly face to face with the white dragon. He froze, gaze locked with the blue eyes with their wide, round pupils. 

“Come,” said the rough, deep voice, “there is food.” The large serpentine body turned, moving with familiarity and reassured grace through the hallways. 

Joey followed him, until he stumbled and fell against the dragon. The scaled side swelled and then shrunk as he gave a deep huff, as if with disapproval. He wrapped his long tail around Joey’s waist, lifting him up as if he was nothing more than a poppet and draped him across his back, just behind the folded wings. 

Grateful, Joey just clung on and focused on deep, even breathing. He felt himself lifted off and placed on a hard surface. He realized t was the hearth of the food room - and he hurried to scoop out a bowl of stew. 

By the time he looked around again, the dragon was nowhere to be seen. 


	6. Bath

He fell asleep on the red couch again. When he woke up, it was almost like the magic had worn off. He _felt_ tired- and he was suddenly aware of how sticky and grimy he felt. He needed a wash- but in all his explorations the prior day, he’d never found a bedroom with a washbasin or anything. 

He stretched and stood up, then wandered over to the table. There was a fresh basket of pastry, and he paused. Where was the food coming from? Surely someone had to be cooking it…or, at the very least, there was probably a kitchen. And a kitchen meant hot water he could wash with. 

He turned and went to explore- there _had_ to be a kitchen somewhere. He lifted his nose to scent the air. Just faintly, he could smell baking bread, and he pursued the smell. It was strongest when standing before a tapestry of a dark-haired knight kneeling before a princess, holding aloft a burning heart. 

Curiously, he lifted the tapestry to discover what was behind it. He found a door and, after trying the handle, opened it and slipped inside. The room on the other side was a large kitchen. Standing in the centre of the room, hands covered in flour, was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Slender, with delicate, androgynous facial features, pale skin, and hair impossibly whiter. Their head turned to look at him, and underneath one of his dark, almost black, eyes was a strange scar ravaging down his cheek. 

“Hello,” Joey said, smiling. 

They replied in a jagged voice, but the words were in some strange language he didn’t understand. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” 

They pressed their lips together in annoyance. There was a movement behind them, and Joey noticed a child. A little boy, judging by the clothes. He had the same beautiful features, white skin, and hair as the taller person, but his dark eyes had a slight brown tone to them. 

The taller person said something to the boy in a rough whisper- and the boy moved over to a basket of pastries. He picked one out, and offered it to Joey. 

“Thank you.” He smiled at the boy. “I’m Joey.” 

The boy didn’t answer. He probably couldn’t understand what Joey was even saying. Suddenly, the boy reached out and touched the back of Joey’s hand. From this close, he could see that their skin, though pale, was rough- filled with whorls and cracks, like tree bark. The boy felt Joey’s skin with awe on his face- Joey could remember that feeling, like the first time he’d felt silk at the markets. 

The older one came over and slapped away the boy’s hand, and he retreated away across the kitchen. They picked up a glass and pointed at it, growling out a question. 

“No, thank you. I’m not thirsty. What I really want is a bath.” 

They gave him a blank look, so he pantomimed washing his arm to show them. The boy let out a slight sound that he thought might have been a laugh, and said something in their throaty language, though his voice was not as jagged as theirs. Their eyes narrowed, and they took Joey’s wrist to lead him up and out of the kitchen. He was led up the spiralled staircase to the upper hallway, the one with the weaving room, and was shown two other rooms. The first was a bedroom, with a huge bed built with four posts and draped in heavy velvet curtains, a roaring fireplace, and a huge armoire. The armoire’s door was open, and he saw the clothes he’d brought from home hanging up inside. There was also his boots he’d forgotten about, now scrubbed clean and polished to gleaming. 

His impromptu guide grabbed a long, cotton sheet for Joey to use as a towel, and led him into the next room. 

It was made of marble, and taking up most of the floor was a large pool that was almost obscured by the steam drifting over the surface of the water. They pointed to a tray of washing tools on a table and, ignoring his thanks, left the room, silently closing the door behind them. 

Joey crossed to the table, and brushed his finger along the tools. They were made of a pale wood, and decorated with something that shone like pearls, but with more colours and depth. He grabbed a wooden pail, filled it up in the pool, and then crouched on a patch of the floor to scrub himself clean. Once that was done, he slipped into the pool with a contented sigh. Sometimes he and Serenity had gone swimming in the river- but even in the summer the water had been ice cold. The pool, however, was deliciously warm, almost embracing him. He leaned against the edge of the pool with his eyes closed, happy to stay still for once and enjoy the bath. He couldn’t help but think of what happened to lead to his being there. 

The white dragon coming to their farm with promises about curing Serenity’s eyes. Knowing he would do anything in his power to help her, even if it meant never getting to see her again. The journey, flying over land and sea atop a dragon to reach a castle inside a mountain. The strange, rough-skinned, beautiful people. The dragon. The loom… 

He was side-tracked, thinking about the loom, and the unfinished tapestry waiting for him in the weaving room. He fought the urge to go back and work on it immediately. 

Why had the dragon brought him here? He knew why he had agreed to come, but not why he had been asked in the first place. Had he been brought here to be a servant? To help the two in the kitchen? But then he thought about his things hanging up in the armoire. That was no room for a servant. Was it to do with the weaving room, then? Was he supposed to make something? Spin straw into gold like Rumpelstiltskin? 

He needed answers, which meant looking for the white dragon. He sighed, and reluctantly got out of the pool. He wrapped himself in the bath sheet, and headed back into the bedroom. He dressed in the thinnest tunic and trousers he had, for the castle was much warmer than he could ever remember being himself. He explored the castle again, searching every room twice over. He retried the kitchen, but found that the door was firmly locked, and that nobody would answer to his incessant knocking. Angrily, he kicked the door, then limped away with a string of curses about his now sore foot. 

He went back upstairs and sat down before the loom. He went back to work on the tapestry, letting the rhythm of the weaving distract him from his mood. The tapestry was a landscape of the view from the door of the farmhouse- a summer sunset over the fields of wheat. He sat back to take in the full, if yet unfinished, picture. 

There was a soft, wistful sigh from behind him. 

He gave a soft smile. “You like it?” 

After a brief moment, he realised what was wrong. He whirled around and saw the white dragon lying on the rug not four feet from him, blue eyes watching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sort of unhappy about the writing in this chapter? Not sure what it is. Also it is kinda late for my daily release. Struggled to get words out really.


	7. Night

Joey had been aware, dimly, of something moving into the room- but he had been too deeply entranced in the weaving to think about it. When he turned to see the white dragon, the loom shuttle slipped from his hand and rolled towards the serpentine figure curled up on the rug. It was rolled with scarlet silk, and Joey thought for a brief moment that it almost looked like blood. 

But then he was seeing a different kind of red. He brandished the loom’s beater, and stabbed it in the dragon’s direction. “You!” 

The dragon lifted his head, pupils narrowing just a fraction. He seemed to be saying _‘me?’_. 

“How dare you!” Joey continued furiously, “I’ve spent _days_ searching this place for you! And you just _show up_?!” 

The white dragon rose to his feet. “Come. There is food.” 

“I don’t want food,” Joey shouted, “I want _answers!_ Why have you brought me here?!” 

The white dragon turned without a word, and left the room. 

“Wait! You can’t just walk away from me!” 

The dragon continued walking away and, angrily, Joey followed after him. The dragon led him down the stairs, through the castle, and back to the room with the red couch. There was a pot of stew on the hearth, but Joey ignored it. Instead, he stomped over to the couch and sat down, folding his arms stubbornly. “I’m not moving until you give me some answers.” 

The white dragon gave a long, heavy, exasperated sigh. He then raised his head to meet Joey’s eyes. The pupils were wide, and he looked almost…pained. His flank swelled and, although laboured, he began to speak. 

“Talking is hard,” he said, and the pained gaps between words was the longest he’d ever heard. “Your words, I cannot answer.” His jaw moved much like a human’s, but without lips his tongue was rippling strangely in his mouth. “If you need anything…wool, silk, thread, anything…ask.” 

“Why did you bring me here? How long do I have to stay here for?” Joey asked, glaring at the dragon. 

“Cannot answer,” the dragon repeated, the words sounding easier to manage after practice. “You…stay with me.” 

Joey sighed in defeat, and unfolded his arms. “Will I ever see my family again?” 

“Stay,” he repeated. “There will be no harm.” He turned, and began to leave the rooms. Joey could tell from the drape of his tail and the hang of his wings that he looked exhausted. Had their short talk tired him out so much? 

“Wait,” he said, “was there anything you wanted me to make? On the loom?” 

The dragon turned his head around to look at Joey with deep, unreadable eyes. “Stay. No harm.” He walked out of the room, but as he turned into the hallway, one word drifted back behind him in an annoyed growl. “Eat!” 

Joey chuckled- the dragon was making sure he ate. He went to the hearth, and ladled himself a bowlful of stew. The promise had been simple, then. _There will be no harm._ He supposed that meant as long as he stayed, no harm would come to him. Maybe even his family, too. He still didn’t know why he’d been brought here, but at least he knew that he most likely wasn’t just a meal for the dragon. Additionally, the dragon had spoken about providing him with materials for weaving. That was practically permission for him to weave as much as he liked. 

After finishing his meal, he allowed himself to return to the weaving room and continue with his tapestry. He worked for hours, until his eyes were blurring with tiredness. He set down the shuttle and beater with a yawn. The room with the red couch crossed his mind. He usually slept there, but it suddenly seemed so far away. There was that bed, however, in the very next room. His things had been stored in that room, so obviously it had been meant for him to stay in. Surely it would seem rude if he refused to stay in the room the servants had made up for him. 

Having thoroughly convinced himself that it was the best choice, he stood, and moved to leave the room. However, he paused once the door was open. For the first time he’d seen since his arrival, the hallway was dark. The sconces on the wall had been extinguished, and the only light left came from the weaving room and the open door of the nearby bedroom. Apparently he was being told it was time to go to bed. He closed the door of the weaving room, then went into the bedroom, closing that door behind him as well. After changing into the woollen nightshirt, he blew out all the lights, except for the fireplace and a candle in a glass lamp on the bedside table. 

He turned down the bed and slipped beneath the blankets. A groan escaped his mouth at the feeling of the luxuriously soft bed. He’d never felt anything like it. It was more supportive than floating in the pool, but nothing at all like the straw-stuffed beds and wool throws he’d slept on all his life. He spread out his arms and legs, but even as far as he could go, it didn’t span the width of the mattress. He yawned again, and closed his eyes. 

As he lay there, nestled in the soft warmth, his thoughts wandered back home. His whole family could fit in this bed, comfortably, and with room to spare. He’d always had his own bed, though. He couldn’t even imagine having a large bed- like some of the other families- that they all shared together. However, his bed was much smaller…it actually felt strange to be sprawled out like he was. He shifted onto his side and, as though someone had blown the flame on a candle, he was out like a light. 

Sometime later, he stirred, drifting in the soft twilight between sleep and waking. Something had roused him, though at first he couldn’t sense what it was. It was dark and quiet, it would be so easy for him to just drift back to sleep. But then, it struck him. He threw his eyes open. 

The room was dark, without a single speck of light, and the silence that disturbed him was the fire. Or, rather, the lack thereof. He’d never been in such complete darkness before. His heart raced- was this the price of curing Serenity’s eyes? Some of their old fairy tales talked about Seelie and Unseelie- their deals, their vicious prices…yet, in their own wicked way, the price was always fair, 

He had been blinded to give Serenity back her eyesight. But what about the quiet? Had he been deafened as well? The dragon _had_ also offered them riches… 

He nearly flinched when he heard a noise, his eyes widening as he recognized the source- the door handle latch releasing, and the whisper-soft noise of the door brushing across the carpet as it opened, and then closed. His heart raced, but he kept his breathing deep and even. Hopefully, it would let them think he was still asleep. 

So, he wasn’t deaf, then. Perhaps he wasn’t blind, either. As he listened, he could hear the soft padding of bare feet on the carpet. They approached the bed, walking around to the other side. He heard rustling as the sheets shifted, and felt the mattress dip under the weight of something climbing into the bed. _There will be no harm_ , the dragon had promised. Joey clung to those words, repeating them in his head over and over again. The thing, whatever it was, stilled. There was a low, tired sigh, sounding almost relieved. Something about it sounded familiar. 

He didn’t sleep at all for the rest of the night, instead too intensely aware of the thing on the other side of the bed, and listening to every sound. There were deep breaths, but not quite as deep and steady enough for sleep. There were, however, no more sighs, nor were there any other sounds. The thing shivered, too. Peculiar. In contrast, Joey was luxuriously warm, as though he were laying in the summer sun. 

Hours must have passed. Then, the thing moved. Footsteps retreated, and then the door opened and closed. Across the room, a candle burst to life. 


	8. Soul

In the dim light of the single candle, Joey sat up. He almost wanted to believe that the entire night had been a vivid nightmare. But the sheets of the bed on the far side of the mattress were rumpled, and there was an indentation on the pillow. So, there had been something there in the night. He eventually got out of the bed. First things first, breakfast. He always thought better when he had eaten. Not that they had always been able to afford breakfast. He dressed in clothes from home, and stuffed his laundry into his knapsack before folding up his nightshirt and leaving it on top of his pillow for the next night. 

Down in the red couch room, he ate a bowl of honey-sweetened porridge as he thought about the previous night. Someone had been in his bed last night - or he had been in theirs - and as far as he could tell, there were only four candidates. 

The first was the white-skinned person from the kitchen, and the second was their little boy. However, a feeling in his gut told him that it wasn’t either of them. The third option was that there was someone, or something, else living in the castle, who had evaded him in his explorations. But he doubted that, too. How could he have missed someone? Or, at the very least, missed the signs of another person living in the castle? His instincts rallied against that explanation too, though rationally he knew it was the most plausible. 

The last option was the white dragon. It was the least likely, but he couldn’t bring himself to dismiss it entirely. There was no way that the dragon, with his sheer _bigness_ , could have fit in the bed with him. But… 

He had no sensible reason or explanation as to how it could be the white dragon, yet he still believed it. What he needed was more to go on. He needed to meet his bedtime visitor again. 

He went through the day as similar to the previous as he could. He wandered the house, this time looking for signs of any other being. He bathed, wandered some more, and then eventually sat down at his loom. He thought about his morning as he wove, about the fact that he had seen no signs of other people. The rooms, though clean and dust-free, felt empty and unused. He’d spotted the strange, white-haired people going about their chores, but neither of them had spoken to him. He’d tried initiating the conversation instead, but the taller one ignored him as if he were a wayward pet, and shushed the boy’s efforts of replying to Joey. 

He hadn’t seen the white dragon all day. 

He kept up his weaving until he felt too hungry to keep going. There was no dragon to lead him to the food, and he hoped that wouldn’t change the course of his day. When he left the room after his meal, he found the lights had been extinguished. He grabbed a glass lamp with a candle from a side table, and traced the familiar hallways to return to his room and go to bed. 

He was determined to stay awake this time. The bed was comfortable and warm, and he caught himself nodding off more than once. He was almost asleep again when he heard a familiar, rumbling whisper, and watched as the candles fluttered and died like they had been extinguished by a gentle gust of breath. 

His ears carefully tuned to the sounds that followed - the latch of the door, the brush of its wood against the carpet, and - most distinctly - footsteps approaching the bed in a steady, two-beat rhythm. It was a sounded like the gait of a human with no walking problems. Or, perhaps, it was a four-legged creature moving a pair of legs in perfect unison. The bedsheets rustled, like the previous night, and Joey closed his eyes so he could focus on the shift of the bed. It was weighty - certainly too heavy to be the small boy from the kitchen. But the distribution of the weight on the mattress was just as long as Joey was, perhaps a handspan or two taller. The size matched that the other white-haired person. 

The sigh happened again, just like the previous night. He couldn’t be rid of the nagging feeling of its familiarity, but he was certain that he had never heard them sigh before. 

Joey fell asleep that night, too tired after the previous night to stay awake through til morning again. When he woke, the lights were on, the bedsheets were rumpled, and the room was empty once again. 

  
... 

Days turned into weeks, and Joey began to form a routine. By day, he wove, and spent time in the library. He never thought he’d miss reading, but after a few days without his nightly storytime with Serenity, he started to. The fairytale books were his favourites. 

Once a week, he did his laundry in one of the plainest downstairs rooms. For the first two weeks, he had used the bucket from the bathroom, and lit the fireplace with a candle to dry the clothes. However, by the third week the white-haired people had caught on to his routine, and every week after that on his laundry day, there was a hearty fire roaring, as well as soap, a wooden tub, a washboard, and a kettle for heating water. 

Almost every day, in the afternoon when he was weaving, he was joined by the white dragon. He lay on the rug, and Joey spoke to him - telling him about the farm, and regaling him with stories he read in the library’s books. Joey had assumed it would chase him off, but the dragon seemed to enjoy his chatter. On the days Joey was in the rare, quiet mood, the dragon would lift his head and watch him unblinkingly. If the silence continued, he would give a low, frustrated huff. If Joey failed to begin talking after three huffs, the dragon would stalk out of the room with a grumpy growl. 

Joey grew used to his presence, and eventually even enjoyed it. He began to understand him, knowing his mood by the way he held his head, or the curl of his tail, or the way he’d breathe. But much of his understanding of the white dragon came from reading his eyes. Joey sensed something human in him. A thin, wavering thread of something decidedly nonanimal. No doubt that was where his ability to speak had come from. 

Had he been a dragon first, and been cursed with human knowledge? But…nobody believed that dragons even existed. Perhaps the more likely explanation was that he had once been human, and had been cursed into that form. It made more sense. There were times Joey could see him struggling to hold on to this thread of control over his own reason - as if it were a thin lifeline being thrown to an overboard sailor. He knew, however, that it was easier to cling to when they spent time together. 

One afternoon, Joey came out of the bedroom on his way to the weaving room. He had just come from the bath, and was dressed in fresh clothes. His face was flushed red from the hot water, his hair damp and messy from the towel. 

The white dragon was standing just outside the door, and Joey nearly ran into him. He opened his mouth to apologise, but then froze when he met the blue eyes. 

His pupils were thin slits, and Joey could see nothing but animalistic hunger. A deep, snarling growl issued from the dragon’s belly. Heart racing, Joey jolted back and slammed the door closed. There was no lock, but he pressed his back against the wood. It would do nothing to prevent the dragon's brute force from batting down the door like a kitten with a plaything. But he closed his eyes and hoped it might help. 

“There will be no harm,” he whispered, clinging to the words. He repeated them again and again, like a chant. 

There was a scratching at the door, and a long pause. Then, the dragon let out an anguished scream that echoed through the hall. 

Utter silence followed, but Joey was far too afraid to leave the room for the rest of the day. 


	9. Rumpelstiltskin

He cut down the tapestry from the loom and neatly trimmed the edges. He held it up to the light, and looked over it with a dissatisfied eye. It was meant to look like home, but there was something cold and impersonal about the landscape. It looked like any other farm. There was nothing about it that felt like home. 

A twisted knot of homesickness settled low in his stomach. 

Unhappily, he rolled up the tapestry, and tied it with coarse twine. He shut it away in the bedroom armoire before returning to the weaving room. He wandered along the wall of thread, trying to glean some inspiration for his next project. 

He paused before a set of shining, silken threads. Silver, and gold- he plucked them up thoughtfully. He then grabbed up some red and black as well. They felt luxurious- not even the silk trader had supplies like them. He simply had to know what sort of cloth they would make. He set up the loom closely, with as many warp threads as he could place on the loom. He made a length of fabric, and it flowed like liquid across his fingers, with a sumptuous finery that belonged on fairytale princesses. He could never make anything _practical_ with it. So, why not make something entirely impractical? 

He headed straight to the library, and opened one of the illustrated fairytale books. While flipping through it, he eventually found a beautifully coloured illustration of a woman in a long, white dress that flowed around her as a unicorn lay its head in her lap. 

Tailoring was not his greatest skill, and though the fairytale book lay open in a place of pride, the weaving room soon gathered up piles of books on tailoring and dressmaking. It was hard work, and took most of Joey’s attention. More than once, the white dragon left in frustration at his silence. 

The silvery dress, with its shimmering, watery fabric, looked too fantastical to be real. Joey decided that he would give it to Serenity- perhaps she could wear it on her wedding day, if she were to have one. 

Next, he wove together the black and red threads. The resulting fabric was peculiar, and its true colour was a mystery- the light shifting it through different shades and tints as he moved the fabric. The dress he eventually made from it was that of Snow White’s wicked queen: astonishingly beautiful, but also cold and regal. He decided that he would sell it, as fine dresses tended to sell for a high price. Perhaps it would be enough for new livestock, and some of the yearly rent on the farm. At the very least, it would help ease the burden upon his parents’ shoulders. 

The gold silk he saved for last. Though he was frequently plagued with homesickness, he pressed on, giving in to the fabric that almost yearned to be made. As he wove the glittering, almost gossamer threads into fabric, he told the white dragon about the tale of Rumpelstiltskin. The dragon seemed pleased to be spoken to again, and lingered in the weaving room for longer than he used to. Once Joey had made enough of the fabric, he searched in vain through all the books for a dress that would be worthy of the silk. At that time, he was growing more and more listless. It was springtime on the farm, and his mind kept filling with thoughts of home. They would be at the fields, tilling the soil and planting crops. How would their father manage without him? The twisted knot in his stomach tightened and grew with his guilt. 

One afternoon, he sat on the floor of the library. A book was open before him, and he stared at the words with no will or desire to move the pages or himself. He knew not how long he stayed there, but when he looked up, the white dragon was stood at the end of the aisle, watching him. 

“You are sad.” 

The words, delivered with a relative ease that told Joey he had practised speaking them, were not a question. He merely lifted one shoulder and dropped it back down in silent reply. The dragon huffed at his lack of response. He was too large to wedge between the bookshelves, so he extended his neck as far along as it would go, peering at Joey with those soulful eyes. 

“Why?” 

“I miss home,” Joey answered, defeated. “I miss my sister.” 

The dragon gave him a deep, sorrowful sigh. There was a sort of helpless sympathy in his eyes. 

“Can you tell me…?” He hesitated. “Please, I have to know at the very least- is she well?” 

There was something relieved in the blue eyes. “Yes,” he answered with calm reassurance. 

Joey slumped with relief. He could clutch at that knowledge, at least. She was well. 

“Come,” the dragon said, “eat.” 

Joey chuckled at that. He picked up the book, closed it, and returned it to the shelf before following the dragon out of the library. 

*~* 

Joey didn’t make another dress out of the golden fabric. Instead, he found a picture in one of the books of a brave prince. He made a sort of doublet with long, draping sleeves. He then made a fresh tunic and trousers with more of the black-red silk. Once they were all finished, he was overcome with a strange, giddy urge. The dresses would never fit him, but surely he could just _try_ on the gold clothes. When would he ever again get the opportunity to wear such finery? 

Holding the pieces to his chest, he hastened to the bedroom. He tugged off the plain, woollen clothes his mother had made for him, and put on the new clothes. They slid over his skin with soft, silken ease, and his skin raised with goosebumps. 

Once he’d fastened everything into place, he turned to the mirror. The sight made him lose his breath. He’d expected to look ridiculous, like a child trying on their mother’s wedding dress- ill-fitting and out of place- but he didn’t. He rarely took pride in his appearance, but in that moment, he thought he looked…rather handsome. Like a handsome, fairytale prince to woo the guests of a grand, royal ball. 

He caught a flash of white in the mirror, and turned to see the white dragon standing in the doorway. His face felt oddly flushed, and the giddy feeling bubbled in his stomach again. There was something like longing in the dragon’s eyes as they gazed upon him, and a strange, wistful sigh escaped him. When Joey opened his mouth to speak, the blue eyes hardened. They became cold and angry, and a low growl issued from deep in his chest before he turned from the doorway to leave. 

The pleasant feeling in Joey’s stomach soured and sank. He was being foolish. Utterly foolish. With trembling hands and stinging eyes, he yanked the clothes off. No more fairytale costumes. He was not a prince, nor a knight, nor any sort of hero. He was just a farmer’s son. 

“Enough,” he told himself sternly. His voice sounded thick and shaky. 

It would be best to pack everything away. He folded up the doublet, and something strange happened. Defying all logic, the cloth itself seemed to shrink. He folded again and again and again, until it was an impossible, square packet of fabric that fit neatly in the palm of his hand. Anxious that something had been damaged, he hurried to unfold the cloth, and give it a shake. It hung from his hands in perfect condition- not even a wrinkle showing on the surface. He folded the other items of the costume inside the doublet, then took down the two dresses to fold as well. He was left with three squares of soft, shiny fabric, and closed them all away in his sewing kit. Somehow, they all fit perfectly in the tin box. 

The next project, he told himself, would be _sensible_. 


	10. Homesick

Joey decided to make a nightshirt for the one who shared his bed. Even as the weather became warmer, even inside the mountain, the nightly visitor continued to shiver through most of the night. He continued to trust his instincts about it somehow being the white dragon, shrunk down for the night. 

Every night, he woke when the lights blew out, and listened to his bedfellow settle in to sleep. At any given point, he could have reached forward and felt the other being - to see whether his fingers would touch pearly scales, or skin whorled like tree bark, or something else. But he never did. The few times he had thought about it, he had been overwhelmed with a guilty, anxious feeling. Something told him that it would be against the rules. As with speaking to the being, which he had never tried for the same reason. 

Joey wondered how the dragon could become so small and light, and whether it had anything to do with why he shivered at night. Perhaps dragons needed to swallow fire, which made them grow large. But there was no books on dragons in the library, and he didn’t dare ask the white dragon himself about it. 

So his next, very practical, task on the loom was to weave a soft, warm fabric. He searched the drawers and trunks inside the weaving room and, after searching almost everything, came across silky softs tufts of wool that were nothing like the coarse sheep’s wool he’d always been accustomed to. 

He spun them into strands and weaved enough fabric to make a nightshirt for someone a little taller than him. 

He rarely saw the dragon during that time, and the loneliness only fed the growing knot of sickness in his stomach. Back at the farm, spring had always been a time of celebration and camaraderie amongst the villagers. 

He fashioned a nightshirt out of the fabric, with a wide round neck. He decided against any buttons or ties, thinking that the dragon’s talons might make using them difficult. 

Instead of fastenings, he found a small enamel brooch in one of the drawers. If his nightly visitor was one of the white-skinned people, their hands could easily work the fastenings of the brooch. 

It was a strange shape, some sort of animal. He searched the library to find out what it was - and found it in a book of sea creatures from far away. It was called a sea-horse and, after learning that, he supposed it did look a little bit like the mythical creatures that pulled Neptune’s carriage. 

When he was finished, he lay the nightshirt out on the other side of the bed and waited. As usual, the lights blew out and the door opened. Before the usual moment of the sheets moving however, there was a long pause. Then he heard the rustle of the shirt being lifted from the bed and pulled on. There was the soft metallic click of the brooch being fastened. Only then did the other climb into the bed beside him. 

In the morning, the nightshirt was folded neatly on the foot of the bed. Joey picked it up and brought it to his nose. There was a musky, good smell rising from it. One that he couldn’t place. With a smile, he laid it back out on the pillow. 

From that night on, there was no more shivering. 

  
…  


The weaving room could no longer keep his interest. For days, he sat at the loom and tried to find some inspiration. Yet when he attempted to make a simple, plain length of cloth, his hands felt leaden and clumsy. After that, he closed the door of the weaving room and didn’t open it again. 

He spent long hours wandering through the castle with no purpose. Sometimes he spent his time in the library - but as his time began to be spent staring at the books instead of reading them, he gave up on that too. 

He rarely ate. His stomach was far too tight to hold much, even when he could muster up the energy to force himself to eat. His clothes, made to grow in to, began to sag awkwardly around his frame. The glimpses of himself in the mirror showed a pale, gaunt stranger with dull, stringy hair the colour of old hay. 

His homesickness began to disturb his sleep. He tossed and turned all night, uncaring if he disturbed his nightly visitor. He stayed in bed for hours before getting up in the morning, and turned in hours before the lights were extinguished. 

Most of his day was spent sitting on the red couch, staring at his sock-covered feet and letting his mind wander. He imagined his life if he was back at the farm - the distinct details of his day-to-day life. He imagined the summer sun warm on his face, the breeze rustling through his hair, the sun-baked smells of the grass and the wheat and the sheep. Serenity laughing as they splashed around in the river. 

The white dragon joined him some afternoons, but Joey didn’t talk to him. It was his fault that he was trapped, suffocating under the mountain. The only strong feeling he had was a bright, blazing anger that burned out quickly and left him feeling just as numb. 

The white dragon would give that irritable huff he usually gave in response to the silence, and Joey’s temper would flare to life. He’d storm out of the room and stomp around the halls until his anger, and his energy, failed him. 

One day, the white dragon came into the red couch room hours earlier than he usually did so. He did not curl up in his usual spot and stared at Joey, until he reluctantly lifted his head to meet the clear, blue eyes. 

“What do you want?” Joey snapped. 

“You are… ill?” It had been so long since Joey had heard the dragon speak. But the voice was familiar and eased some part of the hollow feeling in his chest. 

“No,” he answered flatly. 

“You are pale,” the dragon said. “Thin. You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled tiredly. 

The dragon looked at him with a heavy sigh, his eyes growing sad. “Then you are unhappy. Lonely.” 

Joey slid off the couch and knelt before him in supplication. “Please,” he begged. “I need to go home.” 

“Stay,” the dragon repeated painfully. 

“I think I’ll die without it,” he whispered. He looked up at him, his eyes stinging with tears. “Just for a visit? Promise you I will come back.” 

The dragon gave a heavy groan, both sets of eyelids sliding closed over his eyes. 

Joey’s breath hitched, certain he was going to say no. 

“One month. Not one day more.” 

All his air escaped. He could go home! He could see his sister again - feel the warmth of the sun and breathe in fresh air once again. “When?” He asked desperately. 

“Tomorrow.” Looking exhausted, the dragon turned and left the room. 


	11. Return

The journey back home seemed to go much quicker. He spoke to the white dragon as they travelled, telling him all about the things he was going to do while he was staying with his family. He didn’t think the dragon heard anything he said, but he enjoyed speaking to him anyway. 

They landed on the same rocky island with the freshwater spring. Joey sat on one of the rocks by the pool and looked up at him. “You will be fine while I’m away, won’t you?” 

The dragon raised his head, blue tongue disappearing back into his mouth. His eyes settled on Joey’s. “You must return,” he said. “You must return or there will be great harm.” 

Joey glared at him. “I already promised.” 

The dragon shifted, flank swelling with air. “Your family. The will try and convince you to stay. You must not listen.” 

“Listen here!” Joey snapped at him. “I said I promised! I’m a man of my word.” 

The dragon rumbled in acknowledgement. “Your mother… you must not speak with he alone.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not tell her about the white dragon.” 

Joey frowned in concern. “That’ll be hard. She’s my mother. She’ll have questions. 

“Do not tell her about the white dragon,” he repeated, his voice stronger the second time around. 

Joey sighed. “I’ll do my best. That’s the most I can do.” 

The dragon leaned down to resume drinking and, soon afterward, they were airborne again. 

When he slept and woke again, he didn’t recognise the landscape below. He shifted, leaning over to look down. “Where are we?” 

The white dragon didn’t answer. A few more hours and the white dragon landed in a clearing. It was completely unfamiliar. 

Joey looked around, sliding off the dragon’s back. He scratched the side of his head in confusion. “Where are we?” 

“If you walk North, you will find your family,” the dragon said. “I must go no further. You must return here in one cycle of the moon.” 

Joey raised his face to the sky and caught sight of a ghostly round circle again the blue. “When the moon is full again.” 

“Go,” the white dragon commanded. 

Joey turned to leave, but paused. “Uhh…” 

The dragon’s tail wrapped around his waist and turned him to face the other way with a small huff of amusement. “Walk North.” 

“Thanks.” He sent him a grin over his shoulder and started to walk through the trees. But before he got far, he paused and turned to look back. 

The dragon stood in the centre of the clearing, surrounded by thin shafts of light. His eyes were glowing slightly, pupils round, following Joey’s progress. They looked sad. 

Reluctantly, Joey turned away. ‘Great harm’ the dragon had said. But who would come to? Joey and his family? 

...or to the dragon himself? 

He emerged from the woods on the edge of a grazing field. The sun was bright after so long indoors, and he shielded his eyes with a hand. Across the way there was a sheltered barn, and a farmhouse not far beyond it. There were sheep milling around the barn, and a figure moved between them. 

He approached the farm slowly, unsurely. The dragon had told him to go north to find his family, but this was not his family’s farm. Had he confused him with some other person? How many people had he held captive in the mountain? 

But as he got closer, the figure turned to look at him. “Joey?” A very familiar voice called. “Is that really you?” 

He faltered. “Tristan?” Why would the white dragon bring him to Tristan? 

The brunet tugged him close into an embrace. “Your folks never said you were coming!” 

“Where are they?” Joey asked, pulling from his embrace. “And Serenity?” 

“Well, she’ll be up at the farmhouse - your folks will be in the fields. I'll take you up to the house and then go get them.” 

He gave as few answers as he could as they both walked - about his health, and his ‘apprenticeship’. 

“Serenity!” Tristan called, throwing the door open. “I have a surprise for you!” 

Joey teared up as he heard his sister’s voice approaching the entrance. He hardly heard what she said, only the familiar cadence of her speaking. She came to a stop, clear hazel eyes brightening as she saw him. “Joey!” 

He stepped closer and closer until they were embracing each other, both of them crying with relief. Tristan wisely slipped out to go find their parents. 

Once they had calmed enough, the two of them left to walk around the property. “What happened, Serenity?” He asked. “What is this place? Why is Tristan here?” 

She linked her arm through his. “After you left… my eyes cleared up - and I haven't had any trouble with them since.” She looked down at the soft grass underfoot. “Our parents told everyone that you'd gone away to apprentice yourself to a fine weaver. Tristan…” Her cheeks turned a little pink. “He started helping out around the farm. Father said he's quite good at it. He was never much good with tailoring.” 

“You love him.” 

“I'm getting to that!” She pinched him. “After a few weeks, our father had a long talk with one of the neighbors. I don't know exactly what was said, but in the end they gave us a year’s to take over the farm. With that, ad the money we’d saved for next year’s rent, we had enough to come back here.” 

“Back here?” Joey repeated, confused. 

“This is the farm where you were born,” she answered. “The crops grow better here, but the summers aren't as warm.” 

“Father brought Tristan here with him to help?” 

Serenity looked up at her brother. “He's asked me to marry him.” 

“Did you say yes?” 

“I haven't yet… I didn't want to without talking to you first. It would mean everything to me to get your blessing.” 

He sighed. “He's not the choice I would have made for you, but if you love him none of that matters.” 

She stopped and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, Joey!” 

They turned and went back to the farmhouse together, talking about the farm and the village and Tristan. She tried to ask about his time with the white dragon, but he avoided the questions and asked another one. 

When they opened the door, he found himself trapped in his mother’s tight grip. She fussed over him, neatening his hair and clothes. “You're so thin and pale!” 

“Mother,” he said, batting away her hands. “Stop pulling.” 

“Serena, let the boy be,” their father said. “He's had a long journey, I’m sure he'd like to rest.” 

“After dinner. Don't they feed you?” She fretted. 

“The weavers fed us plenty,” he replied, remembering the lie they'd told Tristan. “I just became homesick and I lost my appetite.” 

“Well you're home now,” Father said. “You'll stay healthy.” 

“...it's only a visit, Father,” Joey answered quietly. “I can only stay a month. I'm expected back.” 

Their parents looked tense, glancing at one another, then quickly at Tristan. 

“Well, we can talk about this later, I suppose. Now come - let us all sit down to dinner and celebrate Joey’s return.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter. It took days and feels really gross and disjointed. *sigh*


	12. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last few chapters have taken ages to write. Part because I've been doing stuff with my cousin while she was in town and part because I've got what is likely carpal tunnel starting to flare up in both wrists.

Joey had learned before in his life that time was a cruel, fickle mistress. When one was doing the long, hard, boring chores, or cooped up inside during the winter snow storms, every day seemed to stretch on and on forever. But every minute at home during that summer month had slipped through his fingers like the silk he’d woven in the castle. 

Serenity agreed to marry Tristan. Joey unfolded the white fairytale dress. It wouldn’t fold back up again, as if the magic had disappeared from the thread, but she still adored it. 

He helped out on the farm, spent as much of his time as he could in the sun, or spent time with Serenity. He avoided time alone with their mother, and any questions from any of them about what it was like, or what the white dragon had taken him for. One afternoon, towards the end of his month, he was out repairing a fence with Tristan. 

Suddenly, his friend asked: “So, where have you really been all this time?” Joey stammered, but couldn’t answer before Tristan interrupted. “No weaver who can afford the sort of silk in that dress would take a farmer’s boy for an apprentice. So, where have you been?” 

Joey broke his resolve, and told him everything- the dragon, the castle, the loom, the two white-skinned servants, and his nightly visitor. He hadn’t told his family- not really. Tristan looked worried, but agreed that he had to return to the castle with the dragon. 

Joey had convinced them to hold the wedding on the last day of his visit. It felt natural, and he didn’t really want to be around his adored sister when she was married to his best friend. He had begun to think that the dragon’s warnings about his family were unnecessary. None of them had tried to force him or talk him into staying with them. Staying shy of his mother was more difficult. A little less than a fortnight into his journey, he had taken a walk by himself to search for summer fruits in the forest. He was lost in thought, knelt by a patch of elderberries, when he heard his mother say his name behind his back. He turned, startled, and the basket slipped from his fingers. 

She picked it up with a smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“It’s okay. I was just about to head back.” He rose to his feet, then tugged the basket from her hands. But his plan to evade her failed, she put her arm through his and walked slowly, forcing him to match her gait. 

“I’ve been meaning to find a moment alone with you to speak, Joey,” she said in a soft voice. “I know you and I have never been friends. I realise I may not have been as…discrete about some things as I should have been.” 

“Mother…” 

“Let me finish!” She snapped angrily. With a deep breath, her face became apologetic and sorrowful. “You know when I was a young girl, I went to a fortune teller-” 

“And you were told that any fair-haired child you had would bring great misfortune. I _know_.” 

She looked annoyed at being interrupted, but schooled her expression almost before Joey noticed it. “It’s more than that,” she insisted, “the fortune teller also said that he would meet his death, buried under ice and snow.” 

“…oh.” 

“So you see,” she pressed, “everything I have done for this family came from a place of love. To protect you, to protect us all.” 

He hardly knew what to say to her about that. Even if she had, he didn’t think that made up for all the hurt she had caused for them all. 

He patted her hand. “You did what you thought was best for us all.” 

She didn’t seem to like that answer. They walked in silence for a few moments. 

“May I…ask about your life these past months? We knew nothing about what you went to do…” 

“Mother,” he warned. 

“I mean, are you safe? The white dragon…do you live with it? Or its master…?” 

“Mother, he interrupted, “I cannot talk about this. I made a promise.” He took a deep breath. “I am safe, and taken good care of. That’s all you need to know.” 

She was sourfaced, but gave a short nod. She wanted to know more. The white bear was right. It wasn’t the only thing he was right about. 

That night, Tristan as sent away for dinner, and at the table all three in turn began to make their own little speeches. In their own way, they each expressed gratitude to him, to the dragon, to the magic that had cured Serenity and returned them to their home, but also that he had done enough, and she should stay with them and work on the farm. 

In the silence that followed their speeches, he picked up his bowl and sipped from it. “There was no need to send away Tristan,” he told them. “I told him everything.” He looked up at them. “I must return to the white dragon. Nothing any of you can say will convince me to go back on my promise.” 

“I think Joey is right,” his mother said, a strange, unreadable tone to her voice. “We don’t know what misfortune might befall us if he were to break his word.” 

An anxious feeling pulled at his stomach. She had accepted it too easily. But, nobody else could argue once Mother had said her word. 

The spent the rest of the month helping out on the farm, and getting everything together for the wedding. He planned to say goodbye to Serenity and slip away from the ceremony- no long goodbyes, and no opportunity for his mother to do whatever it was the dragon was worried about her doing. 

It had gone almost exactly to plan. But, on the morning if the wedding, she cornered him and handed him a small parcel tied up with twine. 

“What’s this?” he asked. 

“Just some gifts for your journey,” she said in an airy voice. “Some honey from our neighbours, those toffees you like so much, some candles and a flint- oh, and look. A beautifully illustrated book of fairytales that Serenity wanted you to have.” 

He tucked them away in his pack. Something was niggling at him about what she had said, but he couldn’t pick what it was in time. 

She continued talking: “I know you are leaving tonight. I’ll make sure your father is occupied…he has some idea of going after you and stopping you from leaving.” She gave a very significant look to the newly oiled crossbow lying on the dinner table. Joey didn’t have time to worry about the package. In any moment he had to spare, he spent it worrying about his father hunting down the white dragon and shooting him down from the sky. 

The wedding went splendidly- they murmured vows to one another as the sun set, standing beneath a carved archway. Serenity looked beautiful, the dress he’d made fitting as if she were born to wear it. After their vows, they feasted, and by the light of a large bonfire, they danced to the music of the villager’s simple instruments. 

He was just thinking about it being time to take his leave when he spotted something glowing in the trees on the edge of their property. He stepped out of the dance, and recognised it as the white dragon’s blue eyes, glowing in the moonlight. 

He smiled at him and nodded. It was time to go. 

He took Serenity aside and made his goodbye. They both cried, and hugged each other, before he walked back to the trees. The knapsack felt heavy on his shoulder as he approached the white dragon, and neither of them spoke as Joey climbed onto his back. 

“Thank you,” the dragon eventually said in a heavy, laboured breath. Joey just nodded, and closed his eyes to hold back the tears. 


	13. Routine

They didn’t speak until they landed at the island spring. 

“Your family,” the dragon began. His voice was more laboured than he’d heard in ages. Like he hadn’t spoken for the entire month. “Did they try and convince you to stay?” 

“Of course they did,” Joey replied. “But I told you I would return. Nothing they could say would convince me to break my word.” 

The dragon nodded. “Your mother… did she have questions? Or advice?” 

He shrugged. “I didn’t tell her much,” he said. “Just that I was safe. I AM safe, right?” 

“You are safe,” the dragon promised. 

They resumed the flight. The more he thought about their destination, the more anxious he became. He pictured the heavy stone door closing behind him, and his heart raced, his breath grew short. He tried to keep his mind off of it. 

A strange wish occurred to him, that they never had to land. The two of them sailing across the sky forever. 

But they did land. The side of the mountain opened and he followed the white dragon into the castle. He felt his heart racing as the door closed and the last of the afternoon sun was shut out. 

The white dragon began to amble away. 

“Wait!” he called. “Please… How long do I have to stay here? Will I ever get to see them again? 

The dragon turned his head back to look at him, his eyes somehow wounded. “Don’t ask about that now.” 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he said. “Is there something you want that I’m not doing?” 

The dragon shook his head, a rough growl escaping his jaws. 

“I cannot.” Before Joey could ask another question, he left – faster than Joey had thought possible for his size. 

He followed a familiar path to the red couch room, where a pot of light, summer soup was waiting on the linen-covered table. 

That night, before bed, Joey found the night shift folded neatly at the end of the bed. He laid it out on the other side of the bed. 

When the lights went out and the other dressed and slipped into bed, he gave a deep relieved sigh. Like he’d missed Joey while he was away. 

That night he dreamed that he woke in the light, the dragon was in bed with him. He was wearing the nightshirt, which had magically expanded to fit him. He told Joey that he was free, and would take him home. They flew above the clouds and landed at the old farm. They began to sail down towards the ground, and it dawned on Joey that they were dropping too fast. He became aware, with the logic that only worked in dreams, that the white dragon’s breast had been pierced by a shining crossbow bolt. They weren’t flying, they were falling. 

He woke before they hit the ground with a gasp of air. His heart was racing and it took a long moment to get his hands to stop trembling. The room was lit, the bed empty and rumpled with use. 

He reassured himself that it was only a dream, and sternly told himself that he wouldn’t be troubled by his bad dreams. 

The loom and the weaving room still held no interest for Joey. Every time he sat down to weave, he remembered the liquid smooth silks he’d made and lost heart, knowing he could never make anything better. 

After a few days of this, he shut up the weaving room and sought out something else to do. He found himself drawn to the concert room, standing in front of the harpsichord. It was still open, though spotlessly clean. 

He pressed down on one of the white keys, listening to the soft sound that came out. He listened until he couldn’t hear it any more. Then he pressed the key beside it. 

As it was fading, he heard a sound in the doorway. He turned his head to the side and spotted the white dragon. He was half-turned into the doorway, his eyes locked on Joey. There was some sort of wounded longing in his eyes. “Play.” 

“I can’t play,” Joey replied apologetically. 

The dragon made his way into the room. He pushed a panel of the wall, revealing a secret inner chamber. Confused, Joey followed the unspoken request and entered the room. The dragon’s tail snaked in after him and opened a gilded wooden chest. 

When he looked, Joey found it full of music sheets – bound together with faded ribbons. “I can’t read sheet music…” he said reluctantly. 

The dragon gave a long, defeated sigh and turned. When Joey came out of the inner room, he was gone. 

He didn’t expect to see him again for the rest of the day. But once he settled in the red couch room with a book, the dragon slipped in soundlessly and curled up by the fire. Joey didn’t try to make conversation – he merely opened his book and began reading aloud. It became a sort of routine. He found a book in the inner chamber of the music room that taught him which keys were which notes on the sheet music. 

He played music in the mornings between breakfast and lunchtime. He picked out the simplest of scores from the chest and tried to play them – most days, the dragon would comeand listen as long as he could stand to see the music mangled by Joey’s efforts. He did his best, but his ear was poor and his fingers, not only clumsy, couldn’t reach eight keys in one span. 

One of the white dragon’s favourite pieces was a song called Tempête d'Estivale. He would make a rumbling purr like a cat when Joey played it correctly – but his impatience when he made mistakes with that song were greater than any other. 

After lunch, Joey would go into the library for a little while, then in the late afternoon he would go into the red couch room to and read to the white dragon. It swiftly became his favourite part of the day. 

The white dragon would curl up on the rug, his long tail looped around himself, and close his eyes to listen. At first, Joey thought he had only come in to sleep somewhere warm, like a lizard soaking up the sun on a rock. But the dragon never fell asleep. 

Though rarely speaking any words, he would react along to the story. Different huffs of air depending on how he felt about a certain turn of event, a low rumbling purr when he was satisfied, the impatient twitch of the tip of his tale during action sequences, even a loud, obnoxious laugh that sometimes frightened Joey just a little bit. 

One afternoon, Joey read him Serenity’s favourite story – Freja’s search for Odr. The dragon reacted in the most peculiar way. When Joey detailed the trolls trapping Freja, he gave a low angry snarl. He shook his big, horned head as if to clear it, opening his eyes to stare at Joey. When they got to the part where the goddess took up her feathered cloak and flew away, he made a sound that Joey had never heard before: a high-pitched broken whimper, like a kicked dog. 

Joey continued reading, unsure whether he should check if the dragon was okay or not. He was just getting to the part where Freja appeared before Odr, draped in the light of a dwarvenstar, when the dragon suddenly took a deep breath. Joey watched as the scaled flank swelled with air, and then the dragon got to his taloned feet to leave the room without a backwards glance. 

It was the only story he had such a strong reaction to. 

Joey’s time in the castle was pleasant. Reassured that his family was well, he would have been happy to stay there. 

If only it hadn’t been for the dreams… 


	14. Communication

The first dream was by far the least unsettling, though it happened many times over. Then the dreams began to shift. 

When he woke up in the dreams, it was no longer the white dragon beside him on the bed. He began to dream of seeing who else could be lying in the bed beside him. 

In the first dream, he looked over to see a man in the bed beside him – all he could see was neatly combed, straight chestnut hair, trimmed around his neck. In the dream, he reached out to turn his shoulder and when they rolled over, where the face should be, there was only a gaping, black emptiness. He awoke properly, heart racing, breathing hard. 

When the dream changed again, in place of the faceless man was a beautiful, voluptuous woman with delicately curled hair. He had seen her a few times at the market town where they had used to live – the lovely Miss Valentine. As she looked at him, her face became hooked with a wicked beak. She reached forward, her fingers taloned like a bird’s, and tore his throat open. 

He woke with a scream in the blackness of the room. The other in the bed was still, quiet like they were hardly daring to breathe while he was awake. 

He’d only just gotten used to the dreams, no longer frightened so much, when they shifted again. 

Next, he dreamed of a woman, a stranger. She was thin, only a slight hint of curve at her bosom – the fabric of the sheet clinging to her form. Her hair, such a pale white that it almost looked blue, was spread out across the bed like vines across a sidhe’s bower bed. Her eyes were blue, not deep and coloured like the dragon’s, but blue and empty like the sky. Her teeth, when she gave him a wicked grin, were pointed and sharp. “You will not have him.” Her voice was painful and jagged, like broken glass in hard, frosted gravel. It hurt to hear, lodging an icy shard in his heart. 

He woke, unable to breathe for a moment. The room was lit by soft candlelight, the fire blazing to cast warmth through the room. But he still felt cold – filled with icy dread and fear. 

The feeling lingered, seemed to grow each day, though he never had a dream about her again. 

Instead, he dreamt of monsters – beasts with slobbering jowls and stinking, bloody teeth. Clawed hands, tearing apart his flesh. He started to wake, screaming so loud the unknown figure scrambled out of the room still by darkness. 

The nightshirt was missing, but he found it folded neatly in his laundry room. Gathering his own laundry up, he sat down to begin his chore. His eyes unfocused as he scrubbed at the clothing, stuck in his thoughts. He needed to find out who – or what – was lying in bed with him every night. If it was a beast to devour him, he wanted to be able to face it head on. 

He heard a noise from the door and, with a startled cry, dropping the sopping nightshirt from his hands. Slowly, he realised it was a familiar, longing sigh. He turned his head and saw the end of the white dragon’s tail disappearing quickly from the doorway. 

He shuddered and picked up the nightshirt again, wringing it of excess water and hanging it up to dry. 

He knew the dragon wouldn’t answer his questions. The only options were the two white haired people from the kitchen, but he couldn’t understand the language they were speaking. 

His best chance, he decided, was to build some sort of communication with the white haired boy. 

For the next few days, Joey studied the white haired people to learn their routine. After cleaning up breakfast, their next chore was tending to the fires – the taller one would go to all the usual rooms and deal with the fires in there, while they sent the boy around the rest of the castle to check the rest of the rooms. 

One night, Joey used a candle to light the fireplace in a small reading room as far away from the normal rooms as possible. The next morning, after breakfast, he hid himself inside the room to watch. 

Sure enough, the white haired boy came in and checked the fire. He swept out the ash and left the room again. While he was away, Joey picked out a book and settled in one of the armchairs near the fire. 

The white haired boy came in with his arms full of wood and kindling for the fire. He froze when he saw Joey sitting there. 

“Hello,” Joey greeted. The boy just stared and put down the firewood. He pointed to himself. “Joey.” 

The boy continued to stare, but after a few repeats of this, he tapped his own chest. “Ryou.” 

Joey smiled and nodded eagerly. “Joey…” he pointed to himself, then to the boy. “Ryou.” 

Delighted, the boy – Ryou – nodded. He repeated the movement. “Ryou. Joey.” 

He held up the book. “Book.” 

It took Ryou a moment, a few repeats, and then he pointed to the book. “ _Kirja_.” 

He was eager and excited about their ‘game’ – the two of them went about the room, pointing to objects and giving their names. 

As they walked together, Ryou would find excuses to brush against his hands. He seemed to be fascinated about the smooth softness of Joey’s skin. 

When they came back around to the fireplace, he seemed to remember his reason for coming in. Joey sat down in his armchair as he laid the fire. He leaned over the wood and, only with a murmured word, they leapt to life. He turned back to Joey and grinned. 

Joey pointed to the flames. “Fire.” 

Ryou grinned. “ _Palo_.” 

He left, and Joey called after him: “Goodbye, Ryou!” 

“ _Moikka_ , Joey!” 

  
...  


For a week, Joey continued this game with Ryou. He was a friendly child, enjoying their game and the company. Joey found a small blank book in the drawers of the room and used it to write a small dictionary of the words he was learning. 

When they ran out of things in the room to name, Joey began to open books and points to their illustrations. Ryou liked the fairy tale monsters the best. 

One day, they flipped over to an illustration of a huge dragon curled around a tower. Ryou’s eyes narrowed at Joey, suddenly wary. 

He pointed. “Dragon.” 

Carefully, Ryou responded: “ _Lohikäärme_.” 

Joey turned the page, as if it was just another part of the game they played. 

Another day, he pulled out a beautifully coloured atlas, on one side of the page were the maps, and the other side sometimes featured hand-painted landscapes of the lands they depicted. 

They learned things like grass and trees and house – and then they came to a familiar map. With a surprised noise, he pointed to a familiar village on the map. “I’m from here!” 

That earned him a confused look. “Joey.” He tapped the page. 

Ryou nodded. He flipped through the pages and then came to the part of the map that was the icy lands at the very top of the world. He pointed. “ _Tässä. Asun täällä_.” He smiled. “Ryou… _asuu… Huldre_.” He spoke very carefully and slowly – like people often spoke to deaf people or foreigners. 

“Huldre,” Joey repeated. Ryou gave him a smile and a nod. Something was familiar about the word, but he was too busy memorising words to figure out why. 

That night, too scared to sleep as he was more often than not these nights, he thought about what to do next. 

Before breakfast, he found some ink pens and some good, thick paper. With Ryou, they started drawing thing for the other to name. Ryou’s pictures were much nicer than Joey’s, and looked more like what they were supposed to be. 

Finally, Joey decided it was time for his next point. He found some golden dust in the weaving room and, the next time he was with Ryou, he drew a crude human shape and smudged gold dust around the round head. “Joey,” he announced, pointing to it. 

Ryou took up a pen and, next to it, drew a figure with white hair, shorter. “Ryou.” 

Joey drew a third figure, taller than both, with white hair like Ryou’s, and a scar under one eye. 

Ryou clapped happily. “Bakura!” It must be the name of the other white-haired person. 

Joey took another sheet of paper. He drew a bed, then another gold-haired head in the bed. “Joey,” he said. Then he drew another round head in the bed beside his. Ryou’s eyes were immediately guarded and suspicious. 

“Ryou?” the boy shook his head. “Bakura?” Another shake. Joey swallowed a sudden thick lump in his throat. “ _Lohikäärme_?” 

Ryou opened his lips to answer, but the door banged open. The person he had just learned was named ‘Bakura’ was standing there, his eyes alight with anger. Without a word, he came over and led Ryou away by the wrist. The door slammed behind them. 

Joey was left in the room, with all his plots ruined and no answers to show for it. The cold feeling of dread in his chest only grew. 


	15. Curse

Joey didn’t get to talk to Ryou again. Over the next few days, he saw Bakura and Ryou going about their daily chores. He called out a greeting to the boy, but he never answered, and would quickly hurry out of the room on Bakura’s heels. 

They treated him the same. Not… angry, exactly. But a kind of subtle annoyance - like he was an irritating household pet bothering them. 

The dreadful feeling only grew. His days with the white dragon were nice - little concerts in the music room in the morning, reading in the afternoons. Joey had moved, from sitting on the red couch, to lying on the rug with the dragon - first leaning up against the tail, then inside its protective barrier, leaning up against the heated flank. 

They were easy with one another - like lifelong friends who could tell each other’s moods from the smallest of signs. Closer, even, than he’d ever seen his parents. The white dragon hardly needed to speak, though when he did say a word or two, Joey always knew what he meant to say. 

One afternoon, they were curled up together in front of the fire, reading a book of folk tales. The white dragon was particularly enjoying one story. 

In it, a husband was complaining that his work was too difficult - while his wife spent all day laying about the house. His shrewd wife proposed they swap jobs for the day. The wife easily tended to the crops, her bumbling husband managed to spill a whole tin of milk on the kitchen floor, let an entire barrel of ale drain out, and accidentally killed the pig. 

The dragon laughed, almost through the whole thing, especially during the part where the husband got tangled up in the washing line and spilled all the fresh laundry in the mud. 

Feeling comfortable and at ease, he dug his elbows into the dragon’s flank. “You think you could do better?” He teased. 

The warm atmosphere immediately vanished. The dragon’s laughter died in his throat. He opened his eyes and stared at Joey, the hurt in his eyes fading to an animal blankness, pupils slotted like a cat’s. He rose to his feet and left the room in silence. 

He was too frightened to sleep most nights, and the nights he couldn’t help it were plagued by the same horrible nightmares. 

He woke up, scream rough and painful in his throat, to the sound of rapid footsteps - and the door clicking closed. He grabbed his pillow and threw it across the room with an angry yell. 

He couldn’t _take_ it any more. The constant fear and dread was wearing on him more than homesickness. 

The pillow had struck the wardrobe, and when the candles flickered to life in the morning, he saw the door peeking open. Climbing out of the warm bed, he went to go get the pillow so he could replace it. 

He caught sight of his knapsack peeking out at him. His clothes had been hung up the day after his return, but he hadn’t looked in the bag at all. 

He knelt to open the bag - and saw the paper-covered parcel. He’d forgotten about his mother’s parting gift. Sitting down on top of the pillow, he pulled out the bundle to sit on his lap. He snapped the twine with his fingers and tugged the sheets of paper aside. There was the old book of fairytales from Serenity - the ones he read to her as a child. When he moved it aside, he noticed a jar of honey and a cloth bag, filled with what he discovered to be toffee. He looked down and tensed when he saw what lay beneath the sweet treats. 

Three candles and a handheld firestriker. His hands shook as he picked them up. He could do it. He could light up the darkness and see what it was he was so afraid of. 

Quickly, he stuffed them back into his knapsack. He made himself forget about it - or do his best to - for the rest of the day. But he was out of sorts, and the white dragon was still short-tempered with him. They didn't talk at all, and he didn’t even sit through a whole story before he wandered back out of the red couch room. 

Annoyed and upset, he went back to the upstairs hallway. He had a long bath, thinking about the candle and striker hidden in his knapsack. He could do it - nobody would know he’d peeked. He just **had** to know it wasn't some monster he was sleeping next to. 

Before the lights went dark, he climbed into the bed and stuffed a single candle and the striker under his pillow. He lay awake, listening to the other settle into the other side of the bed in the darkness. His staying awake was nothing unusual and it wasn’t long before the other’s breathing was deep and even with sleep. 

He sat up, slowly, carefully and paused nice he was up - made sure that he hadn’t disturbed the bed’s other occupant. He stayed still long enough to make sure the breathing was still the same, then carefully took the striker and candle out from under his pillow. 

_I shouldn’t do this._ His stomach twisted with guilt.It was always an unspoken rule that he not disturb the darkness, the secrecy of the room. But he was being torn apart by the unknown and needed his answers. 

The first time, his hands shook and he missed the candle’s wick completely. The second time, it caught and a small pool of candlelight draped over the bed. 

Hands shaking, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly, he turned his head and opened his eyes to look. 

Lying on the other pillow was a total stranger. The angles of his face were sharp, but handsome - and wholly unfamiliar. Brown hair lay around his face and neck, neatly combed but mussed from the pillow. One hand lay next to his face, long elegant fingers softly curled on the pillow - a silver ring with a large, shiny sapphire was shining on his thumb. 

The nightshirt. He was wearing the nightshirt. It fit him well, not too long in the sleeves, just right across the broad shoulders, pinned shut at the neck with the seahorse brooch. It felt strange that this stranger was wearing a nightshirt he’d made with his own two hands. 

Three things happened in quick succession. 

The long, dark eyelashes in the stranger’s face fluttered and his eyes opened - and he **knew** those eyes. They were blue, the bluest colour he could ever imagine, with no trace of green or grey. They were _his_ eyes, the white dragon’s eyes. 

The shock had him jolting back. The tallow that was pooling around the candle wick spilled over Joey’s hands and down onto the stranger’s nightshirt. The resulting cry - of pain, of grief, of indescribable torment \- scared Joey so much he dropped the candle. 

Panicked, he went to grab the candle, and his hand closed around the flame. It hurt so much he couldn’t scream, only clutch his hand to his chest and breathe. 

Out of the darkness, he heard the white dragon’s voice. Clearer and stronger than he’d ever heard it, but the same deep rumble: “ _What have you **done**_?” 

Joey’s head spun - and first he thought it was the pain and the shock, but then suddenly his eyes burned from the light of the full moon. He found they were standing ankle-deep in the snow, dressed only in their nightshirts. 

“What have you done?” The white dragon - or rather, the stranger who used to be the white dragon - didn’t sound angry any more. He sounded hollow, defeated. 

“I don't know,” Joey said, his voice shuddering. He couldn’t look away from those blue eyes, and the pain inside them. “I don’t know.” 

“If you had only held on for three more nights…” he trailed off, but didn’t look away from Joey. 

A hard lump in his thrust, Joey choked out: “what would have happened then?” 

“I would have been freed. After so long…” 

Joey realized he was shaking. “You were under a spell, and I was supposed to break it.” 

The blue-eyed man nodded. “Cursed… to become a dragon. By ought, as long as I was in the castle, I would be returned to my natural form.” He shook his head. “If I could find someone, with a heart and hair of gold, and they could share my bed for one year without ever seeing my face, then I would have been free.” 

Joey’s free hand clutched at the sleeve of his nightshirt. “And now?” 

“And now… I go with her.” The blue-eyed man shivered. “Forever.” 

“Who?” Joey asked hoarsely. “Who do you go with.” He felt the shudder go through the other man. “Can’t you tell me?” 

“It doesn’t matter. I know her only as the queen of a distant land.” 

“Where is it?” He pressed. “I’ll come for you, just tell me where to go.” 

The blue-eyed man gave the same obnoxious laugh Joey remembered. “East of the sun and west of the moon.” 

Joey’s faced screwed up in confusion. “What? What does that mean?” 

He laughed again, but this time it was harsh with an edge of bitterness. As it faded out, Joey could hear a chorus of tinkling bells. “She is coming.” He removed Joey’s hand from his sleeve and pressed something small and round into the palm of his hand. “She had awesome power, beyond what you can imagine.” With his other hand, he cupped Joey’s cold cheek. “I won’t let her harm you.” 

A crystal sleigh led by four white reindeer whose reins were hung with silver bells. They were held by a familiar woman - one had only ever seen in his dreams. Impossibly beautiful, but looking down at him with cold disdain. 

Ryou and Bakura were sat behind her in the sleigh - he looked sad, but they glared down at Joey angrily. 

The beautiful woman spoke to the blue-eyed man, but all Joey could hear was wild wind in his ears. The stranger stepped into the sleigh beside the queen and gave Joey a tortured look. 

Then the sleigh disappeared and he was left all alone. 

~*~ 

~End of Part One~ 


	16. Forest

Entr’act 

_For twenty years, he was to be a white dragon. By the end of that period, he was to become mine. If he could find one among his flawed people who had a heart of gold, and hair of the same colour, to stay with him for one year without ever seeing his human face, then he would be free. If he failed at that, he would be mine sooner._

_The last ten years have been an irritating test of my patience. He had made a few half-hearted attempts over the years to find someone, but they had proved corrupt or his own animal nature had won out._

_But at last, he is **mine**. The last attempt, a flawed farmer’s boy who had come very close. My poor darling had gotten so much hope, but the farmer’s boy proved weak to my arts. A little bit of terror, and he’d broken the condition of the curse and returned my darling to me. _

_I have given him the name ‘Myk’, in devotion to his beautiful, soft skin. He wears a pinched, unhappy look now, but that will fade before long. I have given him slank, doctored with rauha - and it will blur his memories until they are no longer able to upset him._

_Bakura is angry with me, for bringing my darling back to my kingdom. They have never approved of my feelings - not from the very beginning when I took him from his home in the softskin lands. But there is no one among my subjects I could have trusted to look after my darling, and so I sent them to look after him in the castle beneath the mountain. I ought to have thought that my allowing them to take their younger brother would earn me more gratitude, but neither am I surprised by the sour attitude._

_I will save the news of my intentions to make my darling my husband until we have returned to my kingdom. There is no rush, for there can be nothing to stop us now._

~*~ 

Forest 

Slowly, it sunk into Joey’s awareness that he couldn’t feel his toes. He shook his head and looked around. First things first, he needed to find shelter and get warm. 

He opened his hand to see what it was the blue-eyed man had pressed into his hand and saw the silver ring lying in the centre of his palm. He picked it up and turned it in his fingers, catching sight of an inscription on the inside. ‘ _Kaiba_ ’... he wondered what that meant. But then his body shuddered and he knew he didn’t have time to think about it. He tucked it onto his pinkie - the only finger it fit on, and looked around. 

He found his knapsack lying in the snow a few feet away, his boots sat side-by-side next to the bag. He crunched through the snow, shoving his feet into his boots. Then he yanked more clothes on over his nightshirt, as many as he could grab. A little bit warmer, he searched the mountainside for a cave. 

He found a shallow cave with a pile of scrappy twigs in the back. The burn on his palm was throbbing, but he used it to help dig through the knapsack. His book from Serenity was gone, but everything else he’d brought with him was there - even the folded squares of silken material inside his sewing kit. 

The striker was there and, however much he wanted to hurl it at the wall, he didn’t. He knew it was too useful. Instead, he used it to light a small fire and tucked it back into his knapsack. It didn’t give out much heat, but he kept his hands and feet close to warm them up. 

He knew one thing. He had made the trouble for the man who had been the white dragon, had cursed him to go with that queen - he had to undo it somehow. 

He would have to go there. To her ‘ _distant land_ ’. “East of the sun and west of the moon,” he murmured, repeating the words the blue-eyed man had said. They were peculiar directions. Maybe he hadn’t been _able_ to say anything clearer. 

There had to be some way to work out where he was gone to. Everyone knew the sun rose in the East. Further eastward of that was around the other side of the world. West of the moon… it would depend where the moon rose exactly. Sometimes it was a little North-East, but sometimes it rose a little South-East too. How would one even go west from there? 

He remembered the sun and moon weren’t even points on a map. He couldn’t just go East or West and expect to get there. Where ‘ _there_ ’ was. 

So where was east of East and west of North- or South-East the same location? It occurred to him like a flash of lightning - at the very top of the world. When you got as north as you could possibly go, East and West were the same direction. Ryou had even said that he came from the cold, icy North. 

So it was decided. Somehow, he had to find his way to the far, far North to rescue the blue-eyed man. But before any of that, he needed to know where he was. When the sun rose, he could walk north until he found a village - from there he’d find out where the nearest port town was. He’d take a boat as far north as they were going again and again. 

A wayward thought came to him - he could just go home. Go back to his family’s new farm, live the life he should’ve had before the white dragon had plucked him away. 

But even as he thought about it, he knew he couldn’t do it. He had to go rescue the blue-eyed man, undo the bad things he had never meant to do. 

He pulled on the last few items of clothing in an effort to keep himself warm - and his father’s compass tumbled out onto his lap. He held it to his chest - he could find north, even without the sun. Hands fast to it, he fell asleep. 

… 

He work in the morning, hunger simmering low in his stomach. He thought about the dinner he’d been too anxious to eat the previous night - a creamy ham and leek soup with sponge-soft bread and a sunny yellow butter. He could barely eat more than a few mouthfuls, but now there was no breakfast for him. Had he known he wouldn't get to eat again, he would've savoured his dinner. 

He ate two squares of toffee, tightened his bootlaces, and set off. The sky was grey and cloudy. But he opened the compass and followed the little arrow pointing north. 

After almost a whole day of walking, he came across a farm. There were no animals, and no people answered his calls. But the feed and water troughs were still full. There were fresh piles of dung that still stunk, so he knew it had only been lately abandoned. Something told him that it was the farm where all the castle’s food stuff had come from. 

There was nothing left in the storage bins but a single carrot and a few shrivelled up beans. He wasn't too proud to stop himself from picking everything edible out from the food trough. It was an awful taste, but he chased it away with a mouthful of honey. 

Then he kept walking. 

And walking. 

And walking. 

The forest was dense and wild. Brambles caught in his clothes, like hanging branches tangled in his hair. Most of the time it was too dark to tell whether it was day or night. When he could catch glimpses of the compass, in small shafts of light falling from the canopy, he made sure he was going in the right direction. 

It must have been days. Weak with hunger, stumbling between rough-bark tree trunks, he was beginning to think he was going around and around in circles. Would he never leave the forest? Would he die here without ever getting closer to making up for his mistakes with the white dragon? 

He sat down on the ground and gathered some twigs together to make a small fire. He just needed to sleep for a little while. 

When he woke up, he was shivering with cold. There was no time to make another fire, but he did dig a candle out of his knapsack - it would give him a little extra warmth, and he could make sure he was walking northward the whole time. 

At long last, he saw warm, bright sunlight ahead in the trees. Stumbling, he moved as fast as his feet could take him out of the forest. He broke from the tree line like a soap bubble popping - collapsing onto his hands and knees on the green grass. 

Awareness of himself came slowly, beginning with a painful throbbing in the centre of his palm. His head felt weak, muscles crying for relief. The sunlight was harsh, but he raised his eyes to the sky. 

A thin stream of woodsmoke drifted across the sky, and he followed it back towards the chimney of a small cottage. 

Thirsty, and hungrier than he had ever been in his life, he knew he could never stay on his feet long enough to get there. He stuffed the sputtered candle and compass into his knapsack, tucked that on his back - and began to crawl. 

Every movement he made with his left hand was agony, but he dragged himself across the grass. But before he even cleared the top of the hill, his muscles gave out and refused to move no matter how he willed them to. 

Head tilted at a painful angle, he could see a carpet of grass leading up to a brilliant blue sky. He watched until everything faded to a grey. 

He floated in some dim twilight, the smell of grass and wind in his nostrils. There was a buzzing in his ears, like bees in a hive. 

He'd failed - his family, his white dragon, and himself. He could not just give in, but he couldn't force himself to go on. 

Beyond the buzzing, he listened to the slow _thump thump_ of his heart. He would never see any of them again. Would never lie curled up together by the fire, with stories of brave princes and princesses and farmers and miller’s daughters who could triumph over evil magic and prevail. He would never look in those blue, blue eyes again and see such feeling looking back at him. Never hear those annoyed buffs, or the strange boisterous laugh that was filled with so much _life._

Distantly, he became aware of a strange thudding that didn't match the slow beating of his heart. 

“Grandpa! _Grandpa_!” 


	17. Yugi

He woke up, warm - not as comfortable as in the castle, but something more familiar. The sort of hay-packed pallet bed like he’d grown up sleeping on. 

“Grandpa! He’s awake!” 

It was hard to open his eyes but when he did, he looked up into blue-green eyes behind frames. A young girl, perhaps twelve years old or so, pulled back to grin at him. She had sunny yellow hair, in two bunches at the side of her head. 

“Rebecca, come away. Don’t crowd him.” The voice was husky with age, but confident and well-educated. When he turned his head to find the speaker, he fund a grey-haired man with a moustache watching him. 

He opened his mouth the speak, but all that came out was a dry, painful croak in his throat. 

“Rebecca, go take Copernicus out to exercise,” the elderly man told her. 

She hurried out from the cottage, giving Joey a few curious looks as she went. 

The elderly man came over. “My name is Arthur Hawkins, this is my cottage. We found you on the edge of our property last week. We’ve been taking care of you here.” 

He licked his lips. “Thirsty…” The older man brought him water and, once his mouth didn’t feel so dry any more, he spoke: “I’m Joey.” 

“Hello Joey.” 

He didn’t stay awake for long that day - had fallen asleep before Rebecca even came back. Slowly, he got stronger and stronger - was able to stay up for longer at first, and then was able to walk about the room before he tired out. 

Arthur Hawkins was an old historian, who had spent many years doing explorations with a colleague. He had retired to the countryside to collate his research into the book, but Joey got the sense that he missed the days of adventure. 

As thanks for taking care of him, he helped the old man and his granddaughter sort some of the notes in order. 

One evening, a thought occurred to him: “have you ever been up to the North?” 

Arthur looked up at him from a collection of maps. “Hm? Well, yes I suppose. I went all the way up to Hetland, in my day.” 

He shifted. “No, I mean… really far north. Like where it’s ice, all year around.” 

“You mean the Arctic, I suppose?” Arthur said thoughtfully. “No… we had always wanted to go there. We went to the Far East, to the East Indies, both the Americas, all the way to the bottom of Africa. But no… never the Arctic.” He seemed to break out of his thoughts. “Why do you ask?” 

Joey took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the elderly man’s kind eyes. “I need to go there. And not just to the shores of it. I need to go to the very top of the world.” 

Arthur looked at him for a long moment, and then quietly rolled up his map. “Why don’t you tell me everything, Joey?” 

… 

Domino was a port city, thriving with people. Joey had never been somewhere so crowded in his life. Thankfully, Copernicus soon turned their cart down a quiet street. 

Arthur’s colleague was another older gentleman named Solomon Muto, who now ran a game shop in the city. Once Joey had told his tale, he’d expected Arthur to throw him out of the house. Instead the man had said he had to recover full strength, and then they would see about preparing him for his journey. 

When he was fighting fit again, and the burn on his palm was a healthy, healing pink scar tissue, Arthur announced that it was time for him to visit his old friend. If he explained the real reason to Rebecca, she never mentioned it. They packed up a cart and begun a journey south-east to Domino. It took a week, and Joey wasn’t happy about the direction, but he knew had had to leave from a port town, and Domino was the closest. 

They stopped at the Turtle Game Shop, and before long a short, elderly man appeared in the doorway. It must have been Solomon Muto - and Arthur greeted him with warm familiarity. There was no complaint about the unannounced visit, only delight about the unexpected pleasure of their company. 

Solomon’s grandson showed them through to the rooms above the shop where he lived with his grandpa, and helped them unpack their things. Joey very much liked him, and they soon became fast friends. 

As they sat to dinner, Solomon finally asked about Joey - “is this your research assistant, Arthur?” 

“No, not quite,” he replied. “This is joey. He’s a young man on the path of adventure.” 

Yugi, the man’s grandson, looked at him in interest. “Where are you going?” 

Joey paused and set down his spoon. “East of the sun and west of the moon.” That earned him a few laughs from everyone around the table. “Why is that funny?” 

“That old riddle,” Arthur replied. 

“We used to say it all the time,” Solomon added. 

“For it means everywhere, and nowhere at once,” he continued. Then he turned to Solomon. “Joey is going north. To the Arctic Circle, to the pole, even.” 

The older man’s eyes sparkled with something. “The Arctic? Ur final frontier, Arthur.” 

“Of course. It seems like we are meant to help him.” 

“I still have our equipment from our trek up Chomolungma…” 

Joey hadn’t know all the help he would be getting from the two elderly men \- all the equipment, the advice, even arranging passage north with a sailor friend of theirs. They took care of everything, leaving joey with nothing to do but spend time with Yugi. 

Together they played all sorts of games. Yugi’s favourite was a strange game with lots of different monsters printed on cards. 

There was a beautifully carved chess set in the window that Joey often found himself drawn to. Ne side was the Romans, and the other the Egyptians, with a Pharaoh on a golden throne as the kingpiece. But one of the pieces that most drew his eye was the queen’s bishop: a tall figure in blue robes. There was something familiar about the shape of the expertly carved face, a tug in his chest at the dot of blue paint in the eyes. 

“I call him Atem,” Yugi’s voice appeared suddenly, behind him. 

“Huh?” 

Yugi’s face had a warm smile as he picked up the pharaoh piece. “I call him Atem. He’s like a friend to me - I used to tell him all about my fears and dreams.” 

Joey gave a little smile. “I suppose I had something like that. I used to pretend I was talking to a dragon - I used to tell him all the things I couldn’t tell my sister about. 

“A dragon?” Yugi echoed. “Like the one you have to go rescue. At Joey’s startled look, he said. “I heard Grandpa talking to Mr Hawkins.” 

He shifted. “Yeah. A little bit like that. When he first came to my door, I thought it was a sign.” 

“He came to your door?” Yugi asked curiously. 

Joey took a deep breath - and then he told Yugi everything. Right from the very beginning. He trusted Yugi as much as he’d trusted Tristan, who had been his closest friend growing up. 

At the end of the story, Yugi gave him a long look. Then, he pressed the little chess piece of the pharaoh into his hand. “Here. I think you need his strength more than I do.” 


	18. Journey

Joey lay in the snow, pain blossoming across his jaw. Above him, a polar bear bellowed and dropped down onto its front paws. 

_It can’t end like is,_ Joey thought. 

  


To pay for his journey, Joey sold the black-red dress. Neither Mr Hawkins nor Muto would take any money for their equipment, but they took the money to help outfit him and the boat for the journey. At the docks, he paid a sailor to get a letter home to his family, and set out. 

It was a small but sturdy fishing boat, owned and operated by a father and son team. Joey had been put to work, helping to man the riggings, and occasionally holding the rudder steady when they needed a more expert hand elsewhere. A week later they were becalmed and they spent days heaving the ores, baking under the hot sun. 

Then the storm came. The Tsunamis wrestled with the sails to batten them down from the tearing wind while Joey tried to hold the rudder steady. But then the huge waved crawled towards them from the horizon. The fear struck him so fast that he wasn’t aware of what was going on until he found himself lashed to the mast alongside the fisherman’s son. 

When the storm passed, it was just the two of them. The son, Mako, spent two days sailing about, calling for his father. Then, on the third day, he turned the boat northward, determined to finish the task his father had set out to do. 

They landed on a beach dusted with a light snow, where a small tribe of Inuit waited for them. Their shaman, a wizened old woman named Malmo, heard his story and volunteered to take him north – for she had a great desire the see the fabled ice bridge that crossed the border into Huldre. She helped him gather the supplies they would need, and together they journeyed over the Arctic. 

As they travelled, Malmo taught him many things. Practical things, like how to survive in the frozen desert of ice – to cross treacherous ice, hunt and preserve fresh meat, when to tell the deadly windstorms were on the way, and how to build an igloo to survive the deadly storms. But she also taught him other things – stories of her people, and the old legends of Huldre, where he was to go to rescue the blue-eyed man. Joey repaid her with his own stories. 

But the journey was long, and Malmo began to say if they did not reach the ice bridge soon, she would need to return to her people. 

One day, the sun in his eyes for the brief hour it was present above the horizon, something niggled at Joey’s senses. Even Malmo seemed ill at ease, but she said nothing. He didn’t see the white mount in the snow until it was too late. 

The white bear stood twice as tall as a man, swiping one paw and knocking Joey aside. He lay on the snow, filled with morbid thoughts, too dazed to move. One hand reached into his parka, and gripped the pharaoh kingpiece in one tight fist. 

He closed his eyes and thought about Yugi, about Tristan, about Mako, about his father. About anyone who could help him now. He felt the kingpiece in his fingertips. He tried to picture him – Yugi’s great pharaoh. He ended up imagining him as a taller, darker Yugi, with noble bearing. He slipped out of consciousness, imagining the Pharaoh Atem, facing down the polar bear with brave calm. 

… 

When he woke up again, there was a cold compress on his jaw. He was laid on a bed of furs, inside an igloo. Malmo was tending to the fire beside him, singing a song in the tongue of her people. 

“Malmo,” he said, confused. “The bear…?” 

“You are safe,” she reassured him. “Do not trouble yourself about the bear any longer.” 

He sat up. “How long?” He asked. 

“A few hours.” 

He pushed himself up, first onto his knees and then, crawling out of the igloo, rose unsteadily onto his feet. Malmo appeared beside him. “You ought to rest.” 

“No. I must go on.” 

She gave a solemn nod. “Very well. We journey on.” 

In the next few days, they reached the ice bridge. Malmo gave a deep, satisfied sigh. “There it is.” After a few long minutes of admiration, she turned back to him. “I must leave you now.” 

He nodded solemnly to her. As much as he enjoyed her company, and relied on her skills to survive, he had known the day would come when he had to go on alone. He thanked her gratefully, though he had nothing more than his words to offer her. 

She gave him all her food, and the tent, and sped away on her skis. She reached the summit of a small snowhill and raised her arms. Joey blinked – and she was gone. A grey and white tern flew up from the hill. Was it possible that Malmo had transformed herself into a bird and flown away? Or had she just skied down the other side of the hill? 

He didn’t have time to question it further. He knelt to pack Malmo’s things into his pack, and turned his attention back to the ice bridge. 

It was made of one smooth arch of crystalline ice, so clear it caught the light of the stars and transformed it into a dazzling rainbow. It reminded Joey abruptly of the harpsichord in the castle inside the mountain, and the ice bridge he had thought was meant to be the bifrost. 

The journey across the bridge was treacherous, feet sliding across the ice even despite the ice cleats Arthur and Solomon had given him. He reached the other side, exhausted, but hardly daring to sleep. This land belonged to the Huldrefolk. Malmo had told him that no animals dared to cross over into Hulre – and he knew he had to ration his remaining food carefully. 

Compass held in mitten-covered hands, he moved northward. The wind was harsh, buffeting him so hard it was only the ice cleats that stopped him from being pushed away by it. He travelled like that for many days, only sleeping when he could find a sheltered cave to set up the tent inside. 

But then something disastrous happened. Bent over the compass, he watched as the needle suddenly swung to point south. He stopped, heart thunking in his chest. “No…” he whispered. 

He sunk to his knees, the compass held tightly in his hands. He had been so sure! If he had gone as far north as it was possible, he would find the man who had been the white dragon. But here he was, on the other side of north, and there had been nothing. 

He closed his eyes, an immense crushing weight settling over his chest. He had been so sure, and he had failed. He stuffed the compass back in his pocket, fingers brushing the chesspiece inside. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” 

He shivered with cold. He needed to get up and keep moving, but he didn’t know **where** to go. He’d followed a riddle, and the memory of Ryou saying he lived in the cold, arctic north. 

“East of the sun,” he muttered bitterly. 

Then, the darkness beyond his eyelids brightened. He turned his head and then, opening of his eyes, caught sight of the bright full moon rising just above the horizon. 

His heart leapt in his chest. “West of the moon!” 

He rose to the moon and, turning so the moon was on his right, began to walk again. 

Another day of walking, and he found it. A huge glittering palace of ice sat just on the horizon. He gave the kingpiece a firm squeeze in gratitude. 

He’d done it. He’d found the pale queen’s icy palace. 

Now… he had to go and rescue his dragon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Magnetic North and True North are different directions, not that Joey knows this.


	19. Ice Palace

Joey made camp and thought about how on earth he was going to get into the palace. They would spot him from miles away if he tried to approach on foot, unless there was some underground entrance he could sneak into. 

He allowed himself the opportunity to sleep, and hoped the morning would bring an answer he couldn’t quite grasp. 

He slept, and dreamed for the first time in a long while. He found himself in the red couch room back at the castle inside the mountain – curled up on the floor reading with the white dragon. But slowly he became aware, in a way that only made sense in dreams, that it wasn’t the _dragon_ he was with. It was the man with blue eyes. His long, slender arms were wrapped around Joey, holding him close. He looked back at him, his handsome features… 

And then he woke up. In the long journey, he had forgotten what the blue-eyed man looked like – but after the dream, his face was clear and lingered in Joey’s mind. 

He felt well-rested, and though something was niggling at his attention, he allowed himself to linger in his warm bed roll. 

The blue-eyed man, he thought, was handsome. Much more handsome than anyone he had ever seen. It wasn’t the cold, untouchable beauty of the Huldre queen, or Bakura – but something human, and admirable. 

There was a sound teasing at his ear, and he sat up when he realised what it was: the tinkling of silver bells, just like the ones on the white queen’s sleigh! 

Maybe, if he caused some diversion, he might be able to sneak onto the sleigh and hide until he was in the ice palace. He hid his skis and the tent in the back of the cave – and tucked away as many supplies inside his parka as he could fit. He tucked the little square of golden fabric into his pocket – and then there was a horrible noise outside. The cave juddered, accompanied by an awful scraping noise, angry shouts in a somewhat familiar guttural language, terrified animal braying, and some frightened human screams. 

Joey peeked out as best as he could, hidden inside the cave. A silver sleigh had crashed into the rock formation he was hiding inside, spilling out its fifty or so fur-clad passengers. A set of pure white reindeer had escaped their trappings and were racing off towards the ice palace. 

Two men – or rather, two Huldrefolk – were arguing loudly, before the taller one shoved the other towards the palace. He trudged after the reindeer on foot, while the first herded the passengers inside the cave. 

In the commotion, Joey slipped into the middle of the crowd, keeping his head down. 

It was some hours before another sleigh came, and then they were all herded – with the threat of a whip – onto the new transport. Joey kept his head down, and the Huldrefolk did not notice him. 

Before the moon rose, he was actually _inside_ the ice palace. It was not as cold inside, out of the wind – though he would hardly call it **warm** – and some of the passengers began to take down their hoods. 

He saw, somewhat startled, that they were human like him. From their hair and features, they looked as if they had come from every corner of the world. 

Once again, the two Huldrefolk herded them, threatening them with cracks of the whip. Through the palace they were taken, past many more fur-clad humans doing all sorts of menial tasks, and the occasional Huldre troll (looking terribly underdressed for the weather) who gave them a displeased look. As if it was their fault for being led through the palace. 

They came to a series of long, plain hallways with many doors. Finding a quiet one, the Huldrefolk begun the long task of assigning each and every human a room and casting some sort of magic that made the doors open for that one human (and both, or perhaps all, trolls). 

They shoved Joey into a room at the end of the corridor. It was small, barely as wide and long as he was tall, and contained only a wastebucket and a wooden platform with a bedroll that he took to be his bed. 

Sometime later, a grumpy-looking troll came to the door, pushing a trolley. He opened the door and shoved an ice cup at Joey, filled with some sort of steaming liquid. He brought it to his nose as the door swung closed again. It _smelt_ delicious, and the steam warmed Joey’s face. But before he took a sip, Joey noticed that the smell was making his head feel vague and foggy. 

Disgusted Joey put the cup on one end of the bed and stared at it. The drink had been mixed with some sort of concoction that was meant to make him sleepy and stupid. If he was to find and rescue the blue-eyed man, he would need all his wits about him. 

He tipped the drink into the wastebucket and sat down. He had to wait, and make his plans when he had a better lay of the land. 

… 

In the ice palace, humans were slaves. The Huldrefold called them ‘ _pehmeä iho_ ’, which Joey learned mean ‘soft skin’. The softskins did all sorts of terrible or hard jobs around the palace – things that were too difficult or disgusting or menial for the plainer-dressed Huldrefolk servants. 

The softskins were kept docile by the ‘slank’ that was given to them twice a day – but it took Joey a long time to learn there were two kinds of slank. A normal kind, served to the Huldrefolk, which they seemed to regard as a kind of mulled wine. The second kind, he learned, was mixed with something called ‘ _rauha_ ’ – a silvery white powder that made the drink into some kind of potion. 

Joey never drank it, but he mimicked the other human’s expression – a sort of absent, soft-eyed stare. 

He was woken up every morning by the troll with the drink cart, and only had time to dispose of it before one of the other trolls herded them out to their work. 

First, Joey was assigned to the kitchen. It was presided over by a particularly unpleasant troll named Simka, whose main form of communication was kicking. 

Trolls, he discovered, had very poor eyesight. Joey was often able to steal food right out from under her nose. 

While he worked, he focused very carefully on listening. To learn more of the language, and to listen out for any mention of ‘ _Lihikäärme_ ’. He wrote every new word he learned in his little dictionary, and forced himself only to think in the troll’s language whenever he could. It was difficult, and he was glad that he had started learning with Ryou in the castle – or he would’ve had nowhere to begin. 

One day, while making a tray of seeded cakes, he suddenly learned something that struck him like a bolt of lightning. The word ‘ _häihin_ ’ was used often in the kitchen. Some foods were eaten that day, but others were put away for the ‘ _häihin_ ’. But then, one of the other troll servants explained to one of the humans: “those for wedding”. 

Wedding! Some of these foods were being made for _a wedding_. 

He listened more carefully whenever the kitchen trolls gossiped about the upcoming wedding. He soon learned that it was to be between their queen and someone named ‘Myk’. A sick feeling twisted in his stomach and he was determined to hear more. 

It was another hour before he heard them mention Myk again, and this time they called him ‘Myk the softskin’. His suspicion was correct and his stomach twisted violently. He dropped a tray of seedcakes. 

Simka descended on him in a violent rage, striking him so hard that his ears rung. She picked him up by the hood of his parka and tossed him from the kitchen. He staggered his way back to his icy cell, where he could do nothing more than lie on his bed and _think_. 

He had never wondered **why** the troll queen had taken the blue-eyed man. Old tales always spoke of trolls taking away humans, for whatever purpose. But it seemed the queen had taken the white dragon in order to _marry him_. The thought caused another sick twist in his stomach. 

Why would she **do** that? The blue-eyed man was handsome, even he could tell that, but the Huldrefolk were all much more beautiful than any human. Why had he been cursed and challenged so the queen could have him for a husband? 

Whatever the reason, Joey didn’t care. He had come to save the blue-eyed man from the queen – and now he was one step closer. 


	20. Ryou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than normal, but I promise we'll see The Man With Blue Eyes in the very next chapter!

Joey was given a new job, as punishment for dropping a tray of food in the kitchen. He was made to carry wood up to the tallest towers of the palace - armful after armful to the storage box there, so the troll servants who tended to those rooms wouldn’t have to walk so far. 

It was there that he came across Ryou again. The boy’s face lit up with joy upon seeing him there, his arms full of wood. Joey was scared that the boy would talk to him, and word would reach the queen that he was here. But the boy was cleverer than that. 

When Joey came back down the same hallway, the boy opened his door and loudly commanded: “you! Softskin, I order you to come with me!” 

Joey wasn’t sure if he was meant to, but one of the troll servants rolled their eyes and shoved Joey towards the door impatiently. He went in and Ryou shut the door. 

The room was filled with made wooden figurines, painted in bright, brilliant colours. Ryou ‘gave’ Joey the task of frequently stirring the paint so it didn’t ice over - and they whispered to one another as they ‘worked’. 

The troll boy - who complimented Joey on his progress learning the troll language - asked him why he had come here. After Joey had explained himself, Ryou leaned forward eagerly. “What can I help?” 

~*~ 

Somehow Ryou managed to get him moved to a new position. He was put to work in the sewing rooms - at first doing small tasks like sewing on buttons or small repairs. But as he proved his aptitude, he was given more - and before long he was placed before a loom. 

Because of the wedding, the rooms were bursting with energy. It seemed like every troll in the palace wanted new clothes for the wedding - and maybe they actually did. He didn’t know anything about the customs of the Huldrefolk. He was a little quicker than the other humans, and was given more work and more responsibility - and with that, more freedom. 

He was allowed - or rather expected - to stay late in the sewing room after all the trolls had gone for the night. That was when Ryou would come into the room and they would work on their plan. 

Ryou had become a sort of assistant or helper to the blue eyed man, who he also called ‘Myk’. He spent a lot of time with him, helping him prepare for the wedding and bringing him their meals. He had started giving the blue-eyed man slank that did not contain rauha. It made Joey to think that the queen was giving him the same potion as all the human slaves had been given. 

Ryou promised that he was becoming more clear-headed by the day. 

Joey wanted to meet him, and suggested some way Ryou could bring him somewhere that the two of them could meet. But the boy shook his head - he was not allowed to bring the blue-eyed man anywhere the queen had not commanded. 

The only time Joey would be able to see him, Ryou decided, was at the ball after the wedding feast on the night before the ceremony. That was too close, Joey argued, but Ryou was adamant. It would be the only night that the queen would be too busy with her guests that she wouldn’t notice Joey speaking to her groom. 

So they planned for Joey to sneak in like one of the visiting troll guests. His hair they would whiten with flour from the kitchen, and together they made a set of gloves using clay and flour and water and thinly shredded parchment to feel like troll skin. The trolls wouldn’t notice his skin didn’t _look_ textured, their eyesight wasn’t that good, but they would feel it if they touched Joey’s hands. 

Joey would wear the golden suit he had made at the loom in the castle inside the mountain - which he described to Ryou. He didn’t want to unfold it and risk having it taken away from him by the Huldrefolk in charge of the humans. In the days leading up to the wedding, Ryou brought him gifts to add to his costume: a pair of golden fabric shoes that were too small for Bakura, a medallion on a chain with a round ruby in the middle, and a beautiful sword and the belt to wear it on. He tried to refuse them, but the troll boy wouldn’t let him. He would need them, to look the part. 

Joey was forced to take them. 

Day by day, the queen’s wedding crept closer. 


	21. Ballroom

Work in the sewing room finished early. The trolls left early, leaving Joey alone to clean up. Once he’d done that, he removed his bag of things from the pile of scrap fabric in the corner. 

Ryou had left him a small bag of flour, which he quickly used to whiten his hair - crouched near the triple-mirrors the trolls used to admire their reflections in their new clothes. Once he was certain it was pale enough to pass as the trolls’ ghostlike colour, he dusted off his hands and turned back to the bag. 

He carefully unfolded the gold doublet, and the black-red clothes to wear underneath. He expected to be cold, given that the fabric was so thin and fine - but it was warmer wearing them than his furs. Perhaps because they were magical… 

He added the things Ryou had given him to his ensemble, and turned to look at himself in the mirror as he tugged his gloves on. 

He paused as he spotted himself. He suddenly had a vivid recollection from the first time he’d worn these clothes: back in the castle, in the soft candlelight - and the soft sigh from the doorway behind him. What would his dragon had said if he could see him now? 

He had become skinny, and ghostly pale - but there was something different about his face. A new masculine shape to his jaw and cheeks. Had it really been so long since he’d last been home? 

Carefully, he donned his fur parka again, stuffing his feet inside thick, fur boots. He would pretend to be a late arrival - having missed the feast, but attending the festivities. Ryou had promised there would be nothing unusual about that - and it was best not to risk eating at a table with hundreds of Huldrefolk, and other troll dignitaries. 

It was a long trek from the sewing rooms, out through the icy landscape and around to the grand front doors of the ice palace. The wind pierced his face and hands and feet - but his clothes inside the silky clothes were still safe and warm. 

The landscape around him was lit in greens and purples, and he raised his face to look at the sky. He had seen the northern lights, or the ‘ _arsarneq_ ’ as she had called them, while he was travelling with Malmo. But they didn’t seem the same here. Malmo’s northern lights had streamed and rolled across the sky in an unpredictable, enchanting pattern that he could hardly tear his eyes away. The colours here were brighter, and throbbed to some even rhythm. As he got closer, he heard the drums it was accompanying. 

He stopped in place in front of the huge ice doors thrown open to invite guests in. Was this the troll queen’s power? That she could bend the very fabric of the world to her whims. He felt terror slice through him - who was he to stand up to her? 

But he thought about the devastation in the blue-eyed man’s face when he’d cursed him to a life with the queen, and he pushed forward. He had to save him, from the trouble he’d caused. 

Just in the doors, there was a large ice tree of sorts - which he discovered was a coat rack when he saw a few fur coats hanging off the branches. He hung his parka on one of the lower branches, and hid his fur boots underneath. 

Straightening his clothes, though they hadn’t wrinkled or bunched even a little bit, he headed towards the sound of the drums. 

The ballroom was huge, and filled with elegantly dressed trolls of all shapes and sizes - the Huldrefolk distinguishable by their beauty, and their love of bright colours. Some were so bright it was almost painful to look at them. 

The Troll Queen was sitting on a dias, on a throne that looked as if it was made of diamond. Her mantle of snowy-white hair lay over her shoulders and streaming down her back - and she wore a close-fitting gown that almost seemed to be made of pure sunlight. He could only look at her out of the corner of her eye. 

He expected the blue-eyed man to be by her side, but he couldn’t see him there. He decided to walk around to find him, but he didn’t get very far. A troll appeared in front of him, and asked him if he would like to dance. 

He did it, very badly. The dancing the trolls did was nothing like the lively revelries he’d grown up with. It was stiff and awkward - they held each other by the wrists and sort of crab-walked from side-to-side to the beat of the drums. Joey managed to crush the troll’s feet under his toes a number of times. 

The troll thanked him and limped away without another word - hopefully the word would spread that the troll with the gold and black clothes was a terrible dancer. 

But from his place on the dance floor, he could follow where the troll queen’s eyes strayed - and finally saw the man with blue eyes. 

Joey had not seen his face since that night when I had dripped hot tallow on him. Even as he watched him, dancing with a troll woman, his expression arranged in a polite sort of boredom, a hot, prickly feeling spread across Joey’s skin. 

The blue-eyed man was a stranger, but at the same time familiar. The way he held his head, the movement of his shoulders, the level gaze of his beautiful blue eyes - they were familiar. Joey remembered many moments, their time together in the castle, days spent together with his fumbling attempts to learn the harpsichord, the stories Joey had shared with him. There had been loneliness in his eyes, and sadness… 

Here in the ballroom, they looked tired. 

Joey watched him, the man’s gait smooth and elegant compared to the troll’s jerky, repetitive movements. A strange feeling crawled up from his chest, lodging itself in his throat. 

Joey realised, in that moment, that the man who had been a dragon was dear to him. He cared for the man as much as he did his own family, even more than he did his mother and father. He was flooded with an unknown, strong feeling - his heart beating loud in his ears. 

But even as he was awash with those feelings, he saw the blue-eyed man gaze up at the troll queen. An warm look, familiar and understanding, crossed his expression as he looked upon her beautiful face. Joey’s stomach twisted, a feeling he couldn’t name throbbing through his body. 

Was it possible? Did he…. _love_ the troll queen? Joey had come all this way, been through so much, to rescue the blue-eyed man - only it seemed as if he _wanted_ to be there. With the queen. 

His hands were sweaty inside the textured gloves, the ring on his pinky finger feeling suddenly too tight. 

But before he could make a decision, he spotted Ryou. The young troll was grabbing the blue-eyed man’s hand and whispering to him. Startled, Joey glanced at the troll queen - but she was busy with a large procession of elegantly dressed trolls, bringing her gifts. Joey darted his eyes back to Ryou and the blue-eyed man, but it took a moment to find where they had gone. When he saw them, a lump formed in his throat - Ryou was pulling him across the dancefloor, to where Joey stood. 

_It all comes down to this moment._

The blue-eyed man’s eyes found the gold jacket of his suit first, and there was something like recognition in his eyes. He hesitated, pausing in his approach - but Ryou pulled insistently. The blue eyes, so dear and familiar to Joey, rose to his face - there was a moment of confusion, but then the polite, bored expression overcame his face again. 

Ryou was introducing them, but Joey couldn’t hear past the rushing noise in his ears. 

“Would you care to dance?” The blue-eyed man asked, in polite if stiff troll tongue. Joey could only nod, and the man led him into the strange, crab-like dance. “I hope you’re having a pleasant evening.” 

Joey couldn’t answer. The dragon’s talking had always been almost painfully hard for him, he’d never wasted time on small talk, polite or otherwise. It gave him a strange, sick feeling to hear him talk like that. 

The blue-eyed man frowned, just a little. Then he glanced back at Joey’s doublet. “Your clothes…” He dropped one of Joey’s hands, rubbing at his forehead as if to dispel a headache, “where did you get them?” 

“I made them,” Joey answered, meeting his eyes. There was something tight in his chest. He realised after a moment that he had spoken, not in the gruff troll language, but the smoother tongue of his own homeland. 

The blue-eyed man seemed startled to hear it. His eyes searched Joey’s face. “Your voice…” he said in a hushed voice, in the same tongue Joey had used, “you’re a man.” 

“So are you,” he said, a strange humour in his voice. He slipped off his glove and carefully worked the silver ring off his finger and pressed it into the man’s palm. 

His feet kept moving, guiding them in the dance, even as he gazed down at the ring in the hollow of his hand. His brows drew together slight, as if he was puzzled. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and handed it back. “It is very nice, but I cannot take it.” 

Joey felt the strange, throbbing feeling he thought could be disappointment. He pressed it back into his hand. “It is yours,” he insisted. He backed away, so the man could not hand it back to him. 

The blue-eyed man watched him in confusion, but didn’t say anything as Joey turned and fled to the edges of the ballroom. He collapsed against a pillar of ice, daring to glance back. 

The man who had been a dragon, had turned away and was walking back to the troll queen. As Joey watched, he saw him put his hand into his pocket for a moment - probably to put the ring away so it wouldn’t be questioned. 

He looked up, and found the troll queen’s blue eyes piercing him. There was something triumphant in her beautiful face. Her gaze slid away to look at the one she called ‘Myk’ as he approached the dais and the look on her face was wholly unexpected. Her expression was one of pure love. _Love_. Not possession, or cruel ownership. Wholehearted, tender _love_. She loved him! 

So that was it, they genuinely cared for each other. 

He couldn’t stay there a moment longer. The room seemed too close, too loud, too bright. He fought through the crowds back to the doors of the ballroom. He stopped in the doorway and turned for one final look at the man who had been the white dragon, and his queen. 

Then, stomach clenched and nauseous, he turned and fled the palace. 


	22. Wedding

The wind outside was unbearably cold on his face, hands and feet. Wet trails from frustrated tears froze on his face. _Go home_ , a voice whispered inside himself. He had spent long enough on a fool’s errand. He was no better than the queen - he had set out to do what he thought was right, without once ever thinking what the man who had been a dragon even wanted. 

It was tempting to keep walking, to just go back to the icebridge and home from there. But he knew that was foolish. He needed his supplies, and whatever food he could smuggle for the journey. He trudged his way back around the palace, to the lesser-used entrance near the slave quarters. There was only one troll guarding the slave quarters, and they were asleep with a bottle of slank beside him. He slipped past and went into his own cell, hungry, tired and wrung out. He needed rest, and food, and warmth. His supplies were still inside the pack Malmo had given him. His coat was still by the ballroom. He would need to leave the room during the wedding, so there would be no troll servants arounds to see him, or stop him. He knew where the undoctored slank was kept, and that would have to do for provisions until he could get back across the bridge. 

Eventually, he slept. 

He woke to the sounds of hungry, desperate crying in the cells around him. It felt much later than their usual waking time, and Joey realised that the trolls would not feed them or let them out that day. He had heard some of the trolls in the sewing room say something about there being no softskins for the wedding - but he assumed that meant there would be none in attendance. But no, they were not to be allowed out at all. 

He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. There was flour on furs of his bed, from where it had left his hair. Pulling on a long pair of sturdy boots, discarding the golden shoes he’d worn all evening. Hiding his pack under his bed furs, lest he be caught out, he headed out from the room. 

He travelled through the familiar paths of the castle, ones he walked every day - but he didn’t see a single human or troll servant. It seemed the trolls, every single one of them, were attending the queen’s wedding. He decided it was a good thing. That way he would be able to grab his coat and leave without detection. 

But when he reached the foyer outside the ballroom, his coat still hanging on the rack a sound teased at his ears. It took a moment to place what it was. It was not the rhythmic drums of the troll’s music, but something lively, flowing like water. The sounds of a harpsichord, and as he drifted almost powerlessly towards the door, he recognised the song: _Tempête d’Estivale_. 

It was the man who had been a white dragon. He was dressed in a beautiful white suit, with a long tail that brushed the floor as he sat on the stool before the harpsichord. No wonder this song had been his favourite, Joey heard how truly beautiful it was for the first time, played by someone with skill. 

The trolls were entranced by the sound, a few silently weeping, and they didn’t notice as Joey crept around the edges of the room. He stood at the front, to the far corner, where he had a perfect view of the dais. 

The harpsichord seemed to be made of tightly compacted ice, though how it made those sounds Joey could not understand. Magic, he supposed. The song drew to a close, settling like the end of the storm. A short silence followed, and then swelled a cacophony of noise - the trolls had all began to stamp their feet to the ground and roar with pleasure. The noise grew and grew, and he watched the troll queen get to her feet, a pleasured smile curving across her lips. 

As the blue-eyed man rose to his feet, Joey could see his expression - calm and resolute. What was going through his mind, he wondered. Blue eyes swept the room, and Joey thought for a moment they locked eyes with him, but there was no change in his face. 

The queen held her hand up, and the trolls fell silent. She stepped into place, the man with blue eyes beside her. Ryou and Bakura stood on either side of them - the boy looked calm, but the elder brother looked stony. Before the ceremony could begin, he suddenly turned to her and knelt on the ground. She looked confused, and around the ballroom, trolls began to murmur with one another. 

“My queen,” the man said in a steady voice, “I have a great favour to ask of you.” He spoke, not in the tongue of the lands Joey had come from. 

“Of course,” she said, her voice fond and patient, and using the same tongue. 

“There is an old custom in the land I come from,” he continued. “A man will ask one simple task of his bride, so that he knows she will care for him and the home we will share.” 

There was something pinched in her expression - an annoyance. But it quickly faded, and she cupped his cheek with a smile. “You may ask me anything, my love.” 

“Will you wash a piece of clothing for me?” 

Her expression flickered with offense for a moment. She was a queen, probably had never done such a menial task in her life. 

“My queen,” he said, his voice stronger, surer. “Will you grant my request?” 

The trolls murmuring was louder. Probably enough of them knew the tongue, and had told the others what was being spoken. 

Unbridled anger crossed her expression for just a moment, but Joey saw it while it was there. Her voice, when she spoke, was composed and imperious. “Yes, Myk, I will honour your request. Once we have done it, we will proceed with the ceremony.” 

The blue-eyed man smiled and Joey’s breath caught - he looked so beautiful in that moment. Something painful and tight clenched in Joey’s chest. 

“Then you agree to honour my tradition: I shall marry the one who washes a garment of my choosing.” 

Beside the blue-eyed man, Ryou gave an excited grin that earned him an irritated look from the queen. There was suspicion in her eyes as she turned back to him. “I agree.” 

He turned to Ryou and murmured something to him. The boy hurried off through a door to an antechamber, and returned in a few moments with a pile of white cloth. He shook it out - and Joey’s breath caught as he recognised it. 

It was the nightshirt he had made in the castle, for his nightly visitor - with a dark tallow stain on the chest. Something strange was happening and Joey felt two steps behind. 

The queen’s expression flickered, and she announced her command: “bring me water and soap.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this, thank you, and if you could take a moment out of your time to leave me a comment about how you're enjoying the piece I'd appreciate it. Let me know if you'd like the next chapter to be a recap of Kaiba's time in the ice palace, or whether you think it's best to keep on with Joey's POView.


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